How to Build a Heart out of Ashes
by Teumessian
Summary: In an AU where a small number of the population become Changelings at a young age, at 17 John Watson believes he's destined for Normal life but then the Change takes him and he is sent to the Baker Institute. There he meets Sherlock Holmes. John/Sherlock
1. Changeling

**Author's Notes:**This will be a full length AU fic and will be posted up here as I finish and my lovely, amazing beta **kathecello **cleans them up! This is currently very low teen but the ratings will go up further along. Warnings for the whole story: general adult themes, swearing, mentions of child abuse, violence and graphic sex.

_**How to Build a Heart out of Ashes: **Changeling_

_by Teumessian_

John changed for the first time in the middle of his sixth form literature class, taking everyone, including himself, by surprise. There was thought to be some genetic influence, but he was the only one in his immediate family who had made the Change. His mum said that his granddad had been an ermine, but there hadn't been any Changelings in the family since, until John. Also, he was at _sixth form, _a sixth former in his last spring term,and honestly that just didn't happen. Children almost always made the Change between ages nine to fourteen. John was seventeen! Nobody had even taken into consideration the possibility of him being a Changeling, albeit a late blooming one.

Yet here he was, in Mrs. Hardin's Introduction to Classic Literature, desks and chairs scattered around him, his classmates looking at him with shock, with awe, with fear and some with hate. Here he crouched, bristling and confused, as he felt fur rise on his hackles and a whine leak from his throat. His ears were flattened back and his tail was tucked; John was scared, too. What was happening to him?

Later it would be explained to John that this first change process was one of the biggest causes of prejudice against Changelings. Normally the human mind is completely and totally dominant over the animal instincts, and even in shifted form Changelings retain composure and awareness. However, the first time is different—with the shock and the sudden radical change in… well, _everything, _children tended to react instinctively. Very, very rarely was anyone ever injured when a child Changed, but there was often a lot a growling, fanfare, barking, chirping, flying, fleeing, or hiding.

John Watson, for his part, cowered in confusion until the class could be cleared away, a standard process when a student changed during school. Then he paced on four paws, sense of smell becoming overpowering, and he waited, telling himself that the school councillor would soon come to collect him. That was how it worked. He'd seen it before, once in primary and twice in secondary school. It took longer than it did in primary or secondary schools, though, where it was expected, and faculty were well prepared. The teachers at colleges were only really aware of this process in theory, but finally Mrs. Caulking came shuffling into the room with a bright orange blanket and began to talk him through the process of shifting back—how it could take some time, but if John focused he would shift back soon enough. She was right. He took no more than a minute to change back, and the poor woman gave him that garish blanket to cover himself with. John thought this process must be _so _much less awkward with ten-year-olds than with a boy about to come of age—it had to be, because this was nearly unbearable.

Then came the worst, most uncomfortable walk down a hallway that John ever had to endure in the entirety of his admittedly short life. He tried to salvage his trousers, tee-shirt, or even his shoes, for Christ's sake, but the first Change was certainly violent and explosive. There were only shreds of cloth and rubber soles left. So instead John walked down the hall of his respectable college with nothing but that garish, orange blanket covering his naked body. He avoided eye contact with everyone he'd ever known, and with each step he forced himself to accept the fact that they were lost to him now; that nice girl, Daisy, in his biology class, his rugby mates, and even a few childhood friends. He would write to them, his closest friends at least, but life at an Institute hardly made nurturing old ties easy. John knew it would never be the same, as did they. His peers silently said their goodbyes to the Normal that was John Watson, waving away the Changeling that took his place.

In the councillor's office more procedure was to be followed. He sat in the scratchy chair, all the more prickly against his bare calves where the blanket didn't cover, and he waited as Mrs. Caulking called his parents. He stared as her shiny brass name plate without really reading it while she explained to his parents what happened. He wasn't really worried about them. He may be the only Changeling in his family, but his parents weren't the sort of prejudiced folk that got away with far too much in this supposedly civilized age. They were simple, down to earth. They would accept John for what he was, fur, fangs, and all. His sister might give him more grief, maliciously or not, that would push the boundaries of what he could handle right now, but when _weren't _he and Harry at each other's throats?

Then Mrs. Caulking made one other call to a hotline, created so schools could report Changes. John nervously tried to trace one line of wood grain on the woman's polished desk, but he kept losing the thing in the exposed knots. After a conversation about John's student record and a number of other things that went in one of John's ears and out the other, Mrs. Caulking set the receiver down with a click that seemed to resound around the room. Finally, John worked up the courage to look up and meet his fate.

"So…" his voice was rough. John cleared his throat before trying again. "So, where am I…?"

He held her eyes, determined not to look away.

"The Baker Institute," she said.

She said more, about how the school had an amazing science program, about the gorgeous campus, the well funded facilities, and that there was a rugby team there. He forced each comment into his mind, replacing details of his old life one by one. There was no use in regret, or in rejecting his fate. It was out of his reach. All he could do now was look ahead, so John Watson closed his eyes, imagining a beautiful school in the countryside where he would soon live.

There were parts of the Baker Institute that matched John's expectations. It was indeed in the countryside. All the Institutes were. Young Changelings needed space to shift and to move. If they didn't shift semi-frequently they got… uncomfortable, or worse. The biggest building was at the very centre of the campus, and was indeed old and impressive. It was massive and its walls were made of stone bricks, often perforated by elaborate stainglass windows that glinted dimly under the overcast sky, colourful patches on grayscale. The corbels under the hulking parapets were carved into growling shapes of multitutes of beasts—lions, eagles, wovles, serpents and more. They must have been detailed but they were too high up for John to make out more than their basic forms. Sprires rose from both the parapets as well as the towers that rose from the major corners of the building. There were other buildings scattered around it with simpler styling, still classic but far less grandiose. There was a another very large building that John could see on his right, still stonework but but slightly more modern. From the little John had to go on, the rows of small windows, the students milling about with footballs in the yard near it, he guessed that those must be the dormitories.

However, John wasn't completely unsurprised. On the opposite side of the campus, only just visible behind the grand main hall, were buildings that looked much more modern. They were all glass, white and concrete, the kind meant to take advantage of natural lighting.

The driver of the car had picked John up late that morning from the train station, along with most of his worldly possessions. Luckily John was never much of a hoarder of useless things, so it wasn't too hard to pack efficiently. Currently, John stood awkwardly on the edge of a large roundabout that allowed cars to pull up close to the center building. He glanced up at the big silver sign above the enormous black double doors that led into the building. It read 'The Baker Institute' and then underneath in smaller letters 'Baker Grand Hall'. There was a plaque underneath that read, _Iuncti mutamus, iuncti crescimus. _He made a mental note to ask what it meant. It was just one more question to add to an impossibly long list.

There were other students rushing around and a few people that looked like they must be teachers. The students all wore surprisingly nice uniforms—much better than the misshapen things that John and his schoolmates wore at all of his previous schools. The jackets were well structured, black, and had thin silver trim. The girls wore knee length skirts and knee high socks. Their shirts were crisp white, and their ties were black with stripes of silver and another color—either yellow, purple, red or blue. John wasn't quite sure what it meant.

Nobody seemed to notice one boy, lost and new. John wondered if it was because newcomers were so common—they'd have to be with numbers like this; John had never seen so many Changelings in his life… not that he would know the difference in adults he supposed—or perhaps it was just that nobody thought John was new at all, not at his age.

However, John was finally noticed. Well, spotted was more accurate, as it seemed these people had come to meet him. A man with dark hair and a blazer led the group. Following him was a young man, close to John's own age, but with unusual silver-grey hair. It wasn't odd for some charactaristics of a Changeling's shift form to be reflected in their human form. John wondered what his shift form looked like to make his hair go prematurely silver like that. A few other students lingered curiously behind the pair in front.

When they got close enough, the dark-haired man greeted him.

"John H. Watson, I presume?" he asked with a friendly smile, extending his hand.

John nodded and shook his hand.

"My name is Dr. Mortimer. We spoke on the phone," he introduced himself.

John lightly returned his smile, still too nervous to put his whole heart into it. A few days ago John had indeed spoken to Dr. Mortimer over the phone. He had called to explain the process of transferring into the Baker Institute and to give him an overview of what to expect from the process. He was a psychiatrist and the Institute's councillor.

"How was the trip?" Dr. Mortimer asked, obviously trying to make John feel comfortable and welcome, something John didn't mind in the slightest.

"It was good. I thought I was going to have to take a taxi from the station with all of my things, so the car was great," John answered with a polite smile.

Dr. Mortimer nodded and smiled.

"We try and make the transition as easy as possible," he said as he waved the silver haired boy forward.

John noted that his tie had red stripes.

"This is Greg Lestrade, sixth form. He is a key member in our student guard," Dr. Mortimer said.

At John's questioning glance Greg spoke up.

"It sort of… a student police force on campus, like they have at some universities. We stop bullying, track down vandals, you know, escort students across campus at night if they call a hotline," Greg explained, hands in his pockets, casually pushing his unbuttoned jacket back.

John nodded, digesting his answer.

"Anyway," Dr. Mortimer cut in before John had to think of what to say to that, "Greg here is going to show you the campus and, later this evening, the forest. Due to your… atypical circumstances I would like it if you would come and see me within the next week so we can talk about how you're settling in."

"Okay," John said, "Thank you."

"I'll leave him in your capable hands, Greg," Dr. Mortimer said just before he turned and went back into the large building they'd just emerged from.

"Right then," Greg said, clapping his hands together, "Where to start?"

John awkwardly glanced back at the boxes and duffles stacked on the side of the road behind him.

"What about my things?" John asked, and Greg smiled.

He nodded his head towards the small group of students that had trailed behind him and Dr. Mortimer.

"That's what these lads are here for. They'll take your stuff up to your room, and it'll be there for you when we finish," Greg explained, and then he looked around as if trying to make a decision. "Lets just pick a direction and go."

"Oh," John said. "Right then."

He found himself smiling. He liked Greg, and while it was obvious by his lack of practice as a tour guide that they were making special arangements for John's special circumstances, the silver haired boy wasn't making John feel awkward in the slightest.

"So, this is the main building, Baker Hall. This is where all the primary and secondary kids have school, as well as most of the sixth form," Greg explained, looking back at the hulking building. "The organisation in there is rubbish; expect to be lost for at least the first week in there."

John laughed.

"Noted, leave early for classes. So what's the motto?" John asked.

Greg stuck his hands into his pockets again and looked up at the shiny plaque.

"Ah, _Iunctum mutatio, iunctum crescio… _It means, 'Together we change, together we grow'," he explained.

"Fitting," John said.

"That it is," Greg laughed. "So what's your shift?"

Shift was the casual term for a Changeling's animal form, the shape they shifted to—the beast in their heart.

"Umm… Timber wolf," John said after a brief hesitation.

He wasn't used to saying it yet. He knew he would get there, but right now it was crazy to think that he could change into a sharp toothed predator at will. Plus, he knew it was a part of him, a part of him he could never deny. A pleased grin split over Greg's face.

"That's great!" he said. "German Shepherd myself. Was worried I'd have to show another little skittish thing around the woods, but you'll keep up just fine."

Greg walked him all over campus. He showed him the primary student dorms and the other class buildings. There was even a tiny student hospital on campus, as the Baker Institute was famous for its medical programs. When they approached the modern-looking buildings that John had spotted behind Baker Hall earlier Greg explained that they were the science buildings, put in only in the last year or so in attempt to be more eco-friendly.

As Greg talked, a girl with mousy hair and an awkward rush to her steps exited the building. When Greg spotted her he stopped and called her name.

She glanced up, taking a moment to recognize Greg before changing her course to meet them. She wore the same red coloured tie as Greg did.

"John, this is Molly Hooper," Greg said, indicating the young woman. "She's in the same year as us and a biology student, medical focus, just like you. Molly, this is John Watson. You'll probably see each other in classes."

Back home they filled out questionnaires at the beginning of every school year that took into account their student records as well as their intended plans. They were used for many things, one of which was for Insitute placement. John had decided years ago that he wanted to be a doctor—and accepted the fact that he would probably have to promise himself to the military to pay for school, but now that he was at an Institute… Well, they were miraculously funded. John had no idea why, but he wouldn't have to worry about managing to pay for medical school now. There were certainly benefits to making the change, John had to admit.

"Hello," Molly said politely, dropping her eyes shyly.

"Hi," John said.

"John's new," Greg explained, and even timid Molly glanced up at him questioningly.

He was so old to be a new change. He wondered how long he would be subjected to those looks. Not that he could do anything about it. John just smiled, tyring to pretend it wasn't as big a deal as everyone knew it was.

They said goodbye to Molly and continued on their tour, making their way in the general direction of the forest that seemed to back up to campus. They passed a set of apartment style dorms that pressed up against the woods on their way. Greg called it "B Wing" and explained these were mostly used by the older university students and even by a few junior teachers and professors.

"So what do those colours on all your ties mean?" John asked as he saw a younger girl with purple stripes pass them by.

"Oh!" Greg said, as though he was already have supposed to tell him but forgot. "They indicate what level of schooling you're in. There's yellow for primary, purple for secondary, red for sixth form, and blue for the Uni kids."

John nodded, and now that he was paying attention he easily saw the age collections within the colours.

Greg began to loop back towards the main buildings, and as they turned around one of the forest-side corners of Baker Hall John almost ran smack into another student. The young man had his nose buried in a heavy volume and hadn't been looking where he was going. As he dodged, John's elbow clipped the corner of the thick book, and it began to tumble from the boy's hands. John had always been gifted with good reflexes, so he caught the book without much effort.

"Sorry," John said automatically as he went to hand the book back to its owner.

The boy was tall and pale, with curly, dark brown hair and piercing blue, almond-shaped eyes that now regarded John carefully. There was... something there, something gleaming in his eyes like thousands of silver, miniature cogs on the inside of the finest, most complex clock, locked and turning at light speed. John's breath caught in his throat.  
>The boy wasn't wearing any tie at all. He cautiously reached out to take the book back, and cocked his head lightly to the side, eyes settled on John.<br>"New," he stated, his voice low and dark, the finality of a complete assessment ringing in his tone as he stared.  
>Then the boy took the proffered text and swept past.<br>John stood, a little shell-shocked for a second. What the hell was all that?

"Who was that?" John amended his question.

Greg shook his head, watching the boy go.

"That… is Sherlock Holmes," he explained, but John could tell there was more to say on the subject.

Greg idicated that they should keep walking, and continued.

"He's an odd one. He's a sixth form, but he's been here longer than any of us. He came to the Baker Institute when he was only five years old," Greg said, brows furrowed.

Shifting at five years was just as unheard of as John's seventeen. John smiled.

"So he's as strange as me then," John said.

Greg just laughed.

"Oh, you are completely, one hundred percent _normal _in comparison to Sherlock Holmes," Greg said before his smile slipped away into a more thoughtful expression.

"What does that mean?" John asked as they approached the dormitories John noticed on the way in.

"Like I said, he's been here so long… Yet not a single person knows what his shift is. Not anybody I've talked to at least. He is _really_ clever; anyone who's ever had a class with him would know—I mean honestly he's a genius, but he doesn't talk to people if he can help it, and he never slip-shifts. And he doesn't have friends," Greg finished.

John was new to Changeling culture, but even he knew that you learned someone's shift form almost as a form of greeting, as already shown by Greg not but an hour ago. Most of the Changelings John had ever had a conversation with supplied the information willingly, even to Normals, and he assumed they would be even more free with their own kind. So for someone to have never revealed it… And to never slip-shift?

Slip-shifting was the occurrence of a Changeling unintentionally shifting, and it was very common among new or young Changelings as Dr. Mortimer had explained to John over the phone. It could even happent to adult Changelings if they didn't get a chance to exercise their shift forms for long enough.

"Huh…" John said as he twisted his neck to see if he could catch another glimpse of the boy who was even stranger than himself, but he was long gone.

"This is A Wing!" Greg said as they stopped in front of the dormitory.

"This is the home of most secondary and sixth form students. I live on the third floor."

Greg led them inside the building and paused, glacing around before he spotted two people walking in their direction. One was a young woman with frizzy, curled brown hair and the other was a boy who looked like he smelled something sour.

"Sally, Anderson!" he called to get their attention. "Have you seen Mrs. Hudson?"

"Probably in her office around this time," the girl, Sally, said cooly.

Greg thanked them and turned down the corridor on his right, John in tow.

"Sally and Anderson are on the Student Guard with me," Greg explained without John having to ask.

The building was rather nice, John noted, as they walked past rooms and lounges. Some of the doors to rooms were left open, and John could see that they were small but not unbearably so. Also, every room he'd seen so far had been a single. That was unusual. Any of the dormitories he'd seen at the universities he'd visited last fall were primarily two to a room. John thought perhaps they could just afford it at the Institutes, as they were surprisingly well funded.

Once or twice he even caught sight of what he assumed to be a shifted Changeling; a cat and a weasel streaking through the hallways, a cheetah lounging on a bed. It was all very strange.

They reached a windowed door at the end of the hallway, and Greg knocked lightly before entering.

"Mrs. Hudson? I've brought someone to see you," Greg said with a fondness in his voice that told John he liked the woman they were about to meet.

A little lady looked up from behind a desk, and at the sight of John and Greg she smiled warmly.

"Oh, hello, darling. You must be John?" she asked as she rose stiffly.

"Yes," John said.

"Well, I'll leave you in Mrs. Hudson's capable hands," Greg said, flashing a smile in her direction.

"Oh, shoo, you," she said good naturedly.

"John, I'll come by sometime after dinner, and we can go into the forest. How are you feeling?" he asked, and John knew what he meant.

"I'm okay. I shifted last night," John says.

"Good, good," Greg said before he disappeared around the doorframe.

"Greg's a good boy," Mrs. Hudson said warmly when he was gone.

John just nodded, not really knowing how to add to that.

"Right now, first we'll take your measurments, and then we'll show you to your room. Some of the folks with the Student Guard brought up your things a while ago so they're already there," she explained.

"Measurements?" John asked.

"For your uniform, darling," Mrs. Hudson explained.

Oh, so _that's _why the Baker Institute uniforms didn't look like absolute rubbish—measuring.

"If you grow out of it at any time just go down to the student shop in Baker Hall, and they'll fix you up. You can pick up your uniforms there tomorrow morning as well. I'll give you directions," she said helpfully.

That hit John a little bit like a low blow. He wished he was going to get taller, but if his family history had anything to say about the subject, it was unlikely at best.

As Mrs. Hudson measured she prattled on, and by the time she finished John learned that she was the housing coodinator of both A and B Wings and that she lived in B Wing herself. Also, she was highly grateful she wasn't running the primary dorms anymore—trying to keep primary schoolers with the ability to change into animals at will in line was akin to herding cats… Sometimes it was _actually_ herding cats.

"Ready to see your room?" Mrs. Hudson asked when she was finished, and John nodded.

She led him up the stair after stair until they finally reached the top floor, floor six. John did not envy the members of the Student Guard who had to carry all his things up those stairs. Once in the hallway, Mrs. Hudson only led him past a couple of doors before stopping in front of a door marked 614A. She fiddled with some keys before turning the lock and allowing him to walk in.

It wasn't any thing special. A good sized window was set into the far wall; out it he could see Baker Grand Hall. There was a writing desk, and a simple twin bed, where his boxes and bags were currently stacked. There was a large wardrobe on the right wall as well. It wasn't huge, defintely smaller than his room at home, but it wasn't cramped. He could be more than comfortable here.

"Why are they all singles?" the question slipped out of its own accord.

"Well… Changelings often shift in their sleep or just find it more comfortable to sleep shifted, and, well, sometimes pajamas can get uncomfortable…" she said, attempting subtlety.

John got the message . They all had singles so it wouldn't be awkward for Changelings to sleep in the nude if they chose to shift. The thought almost made John giggle. In fact, it did.

"That's enough, dearest," Mrs. Hudson chastised, but there was a smile on her face.

"Hello, Mrs. Hudson," John heard a voice behind him say.

When he turned he saw a boy, who must have been close to his age, with glasses and a plump frame. He was even shorter than John was, he couldn't help but notice.

"Oh, hello, dear," Mrs. Hudson greeted. "How are you?"

"Good, good," he said, jovially. "And you?"

"Fine, darling," she said. "Oh, Mike, this is John, John Watson. He's just moving in."

Mike looked him over once before smiling and extending his hand.

"Nice to meet you," he said. "I'm down at the end of the hall, second to last on the right. I hope you have better luck with your next door neighbors than I have."

John cocked his head to the side in question.

"What?"

He didn't miss the way Mrs. Hudson's lip twitched at Mike's words.

"Mike's next door neighbor has interesting sleep habits is all," she said.

"Plays that violin at all hours of the night, he does…" Mike said, looking wary. "And where do the explosions keep coming from?"

John was totally lost, but Mrs. Hudson just chuckled.

"I'll see what I can do about the violin," Mrs. Hudson assured Mike. "Oh, and John, here are your keys. The ridged one is for the dorm and the other is for the building."

"Thanks," John said sincerely.

"Do you need anything else, darling? A cup of tea to help you settle in?" she asked.

"A cuppa would be _lovely,_" John said.

"Well, just this once… I'm not your housekeeper," she rambled on as she turned to go back the way they'd come, and John disappeared into his new room.

He shut the door and took a deep breath through his nose. This was going well. He was doing well. He let himself rest against the door for a moment. Then, deliberately, he pushed himself into the room and towards the boxes, and John Watson began to unpack his life.

People were dull—horrifyingly so. Every day people woke up, went about their buisiness, interacted with other dreadfully boring people, went home, and went to sleep, only to get up the next morning and do it all over again. Even Changelings, for all their mystery and inexplicable uniqueness, were basically uninteresting. They followed the same routines and interacted in the same disgustingly unexciting ways.

The irritated shrieking of a violin split the evening air. A bow flexed in frustration. Why were they all so _dull?_

Only once in a blue moon was there a spark, something new, something different, something _interesting. _But even those were no more than fleeting distractions from the monotony. The origin of the flame was always quickly deduced, and without the fuel of mystery it stuttered and flickered out, leaving only the tedious darkness once again. This is why Sherlock Holmes dedicated his life to tracking down those little sparks of the unknown, of _brilliance, _and taming each one…because what else did life have to offer him?

His frustration came to a—very loud—crecendo before an agonized wail cut into his musings.

"Jesus _CHRIST. _I'm _begging _you, Holmes!" a desperate voice pressed through the wall. "I have coursework due tomorrow!"

With a sigh that would have made anyone believe that _he _was the one being inconvenienced, the dark haired youth set his well cared-for violin on his bedspread. Sherlock's mood was only further reduced by his growing awareness of the tugging sensation in is stomach—a little twist, an itch. He hadn't changed in a few days, not even in sleep. Well, he hadn't exactly slept much in those past couple days either.

With one more heavy sigh, Sherlock resigned himself to the inevitability of a trip into the forest that evening. It's not that Sherlock disliked being a Changeling, quite the contrary, actually. It was one more thing that set him apart from the blundering masses, and sometimes there was a soothing clarity that came from from the predatory mind of his shift, when his brain was always swirling so frantically. It also provided heightened senses that had been useful to Sherlock on more than one occasion. It was simply an inconvenient to cater to in addition to his other bodily needs. Less inconvenient than sleep though…

When Sherlock reached the field that separated the inner campus and the forest, he beelined towards the changing room at the very end of the long line of booths that allowed Changelings to store their clothes and shift before entering the woods. Each one was about the size of a large powder room so that those with larger shift forms could change comfortably. One side had a door with a sliding sign that marked the booth as vacant or in use. Inside were coat hooks, a low bench, and a bin to put clothes in. There were also a series of rigged hangers, like little hooks susupend at different levels on the wall with an pressure-release, that allowed students to slip into their markers, the collars that distinguished the students from wild animals to avoid accidents, once they were shifted, but Sherlock couldn't be bothered with those.

Sherlock claimed the very last booth in the row, just as he always did; it was only a few dozen meters away from the treeline. He slid the sign over to read "in use." Inside he undid his scarf, removed his jacket, and hung them both up on the coathook before undressing completely and placing his neatly folded garments into the storage bin.

Then the lanky, pale adolescent disappeared, and in his place stood a lithe beast with fur like midnight and eyes like ice. He padded smoothly forward, cautiously nosing through the curtain that separated him from the forest. Nobody noticed the shadow that was Sherlock Holmes as he slipped out into the twilight and under the shading trees.


	2. Voice

**Author's Notes:**This will be a full length AU fic and will be posted up here as I finish and my lovely, amazing beta **kathecello **cleans them up! This is currently low teen but the ratings will go up further along. Warnings for the whole story: general adult themes, swearing, mentions of child abuse, violence and graphic sex. I'd love it if you all reviewed!

_**How to Make a Heart out of Ashes: **Voice_

_by Teumessian_

Greg came by to get John near dusk when the light was draining out of the sky. From the dorms they began to make their way across the Baker Institute's main campus and towards the field that separated it from the forest. John could see the changing booths Greg pointed out earlier in the distance. As they walked Greg continued to dump new information into John's already over processed brain.

"So what do you know about shift-speech?" Greg asked him.

Shift-speech, from what John understood, was the method that allowed Changelings to speak to one another while in shifted form, almost like a form of telepathy. Other than that though, John didn't know much, so that's what he told Greg.

"That's a good way of describing it," Greg said in hearing John's description. "But it's a little more complex… it's not something we can all just do effortlessly. Lots of factors influence the clarity of the communication, especially when it comes to the familiarity of the parties speaking."

They were closing in on a pair of booths now. The grass was lush beneath John's feet and he caught sight of a Shetland pony, a zebra and a buzzard chasing each other around the open field.

"Okay you can go in there. There's a bin for your clothes on the bench and once you're shifted just meet me out here. Then we'll go into the forest," Greg said. "Oh, and take this, too."

Greg pulled something red out of his pocket and tossed it to John. He caught it and then looked at what appeared to be a collar, like for a dog or a cat. It was about an inch thick and made of red leather. There was a bowed silver plate affixed to it that read 'The Baker Institute'. He shot Greg a questioning glance, raising an eyebrow. Greg just laughed.

"Think of it as school uniform," Greg explained. "Every Changeling who can, wears a marker to distinguish themselves from wild animal and to show what year we're in, since primary students aren't allowed into the deep forest without supervision."

Greg pulled out a second collar that looked the same as the one in John's hands, albeit quite a bit more worn. The buzzard flew overhead and John caught a flash of yellow around its left foot.

"Okay, makes enough sense," John chuckled.

John entered the booth and undressed quickly, finding himself eager to make the change. John measured the collar for a second before buckling it loosely around his neck. Then he took a deep breath and looked inside himself for that hidden part that he'd only uncovered recently, and he unlocked the cage. There was a rush, like wind was running all over his body, and when he opened his eyes they looked lower than before and a waterfall of smells assaulted him. He could smell _everything._

John pushed his way through the heavy curtain and onto the grass, where, waiting for him, was a white German shepherd. So that's where Greg's hair colour came from. His tongue was lolling out and he leaned back on his rump to scratch his ruffed neck with his hind leg. When he saw John he rose up and stretched. When he was done he looked up at John.

_Cool. Shady. Dark. _**Let's go.** _Breezy._

The shift speech slipped into John's mind as a mix of mostly feelings and a few words. When the feelings were put together into a concept it was obvious to John that Greg meant for them to go into the forest now.

John attempted to broadcast a feeling of affirmation but whether or not Greg received it, he began to lope towards the tree line, John following close behind.

John decided very quickly that he rather liked the woods. They were cool and soothing and he began to understand even better the feelings Greg had used to identify it. The ground was a little mushy in places, and the musty smell of rotting leaves filled John's muzzle. There were many other smells, too, the smell of wild animals, the smell of other Changelings. For some reason that John couldn't explain, it was impossible to not tell the difference between the two.

John and Greg mostly just traipsed through the woods without any real aim. They occasionally encountered another Changeling or group, but due to communication barriers the forest wasn't often a good place to meet or get to know people, so mostly people continued to do their own thing. If John had a question he found he could ask it by trying to throw his feelings of confusion towards Greg and point to a subject using body language. Greg would answer simply if he could through a set of feelings and a few words.

John was pleased. He honestly enjoyed being in his shift form. There was a power and awareness he would never be able to fathom in his human form. If being a Changeling was always like this then maybe the prejudice Normals had against Changelings was just jealousy, because this was fantastic.

It was only when John was finally starting to feel tired and they slowed to a walk did John feel the prickling in his hackles—the feeling of being watched. He scanned the woods calmly but saw nothing. However, the forest was full of sentient Changelings. There could be watching eyes anywhere.

John skipped a few steps forward to catch up with Greg, moss springy beneath his paws. John looked up at his guide to try and ask a question.

What John wanted to ask was how long they would be staying out but the feelings got all jumbled up and he knew all that got through to Greg was a vague sense of weariness and time.

Greg looked back towards him, question in his eyes.

_ Tired. _**Go back? **_Warm. Comfort._

John easily recognized the feelings associated with 'home' as the dorms were to Greg, and would hopefully be to him before too long. He was just about to reply when something soft, yet electric, danced over the surface of his being. It was like the brush of a bird's wings that send static, gold sparks across the skin of his mind. His head whipped to the side and he focused on the trees at the edge of the clearing, looking for something… but he saw nothing in the shadows.

. . .

Sherlock wandered in the silence, weaving in and out of the trees and the brush. It was spring and the green was returning to the forest. The dampness under his sensitive paw pads told him the temperature had not risen high enough today for any evaporation to occur. Sherlock moved nearly aimlessly but took inventory of the forest, and the Changelings through it, as he went.

Sherlock could tell from the swooping gouges in the moss of the south meadow that the secondary students had been holding races again, and, upon opening his mouth to draw the forest air over the vomeronasal gland in the roof of his mouth, could tell the races were sexually motivated.

Unlike many psychologists, Sherlock did not believe that, at their roots, all things were sexually motivated. There are many motives—greed, hunger, anger… entertainment. However, among the age group Sherlock spent the majority of his time around, sexual motivation was by far the most common.

The silent panther continued on his way and was considering taking the long way around to one of the small lakes on the Baker Institute's property. He figured by the time he reached it and made his way back he would have satisfied the basic requirements of the animal inside of him and allow him to abstain from changing for at least another three days, but then he heard the whispers—the muffled thoughts bouncing against the walls of his mind. Where was that coming from?

It was like a flutter against his consciousness, then perhaps a word or two. It sounded like someone was trying to talk to him from too far away—but he didn't speak with _anyone_ here.

Shift speech took practice, and while Sherlock elected not to speak to his school makes, having come from a completely Changed household, as well as including the sheer amount of time he'd been able to shift, meant that Sherlock could, when necessary, speak fluently to most Changelings he knew and even some strangers, even though it didn't necessarily go both ways. This wasn't Sherlock speaking, though. This was someone speaking to _him, _and it was not the voice of a teacher. But there wasn't a student on campus adept enough at shift speech to talk to him. Perhaps one or two… but none of them would bother trying to speak to him because nobody _knew _him.

So then whose words floated faintly but effortlessly into his mind now?

Sherlock followed the whispers, mind crackling with excitement. There was something new! His carefully controlled brain was on loop, begging whatever this thing was _not _to be boring.

As he grew closer, the bursts of thought became clearer, 'louder'. Sherlock stayed silent as he approached the sound of two figures walking through a clearing in the trees. With a burst of speed, Sherlock overtook them and bolted up a tree to get a proper look.

Two canines—that was Sherlock's snap assessment and then thousands of details assaulted him as they always did, the things no one else saw. There was a white German shepherd padding just ahead of what appeared to be a sand blond wolf. Sherlock recognized the shepherd as Greg Lestrade—member of the student guard, friendly, well liked by his teachers, intelligence level moderate as compared to his peers and pathetically dim in comparison to his own—but then so were most people's mental capacities. It took Sherlock no more than two seconds to come to the conclusion that he wasn't the one who had called Sherlock here.

So then he moved on to the wolf. It walked a few steps behind Greg, by his left flank, and the way he kept looking at the shepherd indicated to Sherlock that it was following Greg. Sherlock's mind pulled up a parallel from earlier that day. A blonde boy who must have been about seventeen? Eighteen? Probably seventeen—he'd been following Greg… he was a new Changeling! It was the only explanation, even if the boy was preposterously old for a first shift but oh, that was good. That was fascinating. It was the only conclusion that fit within the constraints of the evidence. Looking for it now, Sherlock noticed the extra attention the wolf had been giving to smelling the air, to the use of four legs. Yes, he was perfectly new.

The wolf looked up over to Greg as if getting ready to ask a question. Another thought burst into his mind, surprising him.

_Excitement. Interest. _**How long do we stay out? **_Wariness. A free urge to run._

The clarity of not just the words but the feelings surrounding them was mind blowing. Sherlock could understand this new Changeling if they were having a conversation in human form! No, even better than a human conversation. Sherlock heard this Changeling's soul in the shift speech.

On top of that, the question was obviously aimed at Greg, who Sherlock could tell hadn't heard more than the flash of fuzzy, wordless emotions that characterized new Changelings shift speech. Yet Sherlock could hear him as clear as he could see the moon in the sky.

There it was. That wonderful, _beautiful _spark. His excitement was palpable and his thrill rose to a peak as a lupine head whipped towards him in the dark—as if it _heard _his pleasure. Sherlock knew the shadows hid him but clear eyes seemed to stare straight into him. It sent a shiver up his spine, the mystery.

This most certainly _was _new.

This was _interesting._

_. . .  
><em>

In the next few days John continued to venture into the forest with Greg, as well as occasionally Mike Stamford, the shorter boy from his floor. Mike's shift, however, was a raccoon, and therefore often had trouble keeping up with the wolf and shepherd so usually stuck to shorter visits into the forest. John often felt like he was being watched when he ventured under the trees. Sometimes there was a pressure on his mind, or a crackle like on that first night, and one he swore he heard his name called clear as a bell, but Greg swore he hadn't said a word. Though, with John's minimal shift speaking abilities, perhaps Greg had just misunderstood his questioning.

John started classes at the Baker Institute. John wasn't going to kid himself. His timing had been absolutely rubbish—he was barely a sixth former anymore, but he still had to complete his A-levels and yet he had made the Change at the least opportune moment. His only consolation was that spring term had just started so it wasn't taking too much effort to catch up with the Institute coursework and the teachers were more than accommodating.

Molly Hooper was in his biology class and had chemistry just before John, so they spoke regularly in class, and in the short break between their chemistry classes. Molly had a certain lack of a way with words but she was as nice as a girl could be, and didn't treat John any differently because of his late Change.

John noticed she was especially awkward after chemistry each day and it wasn't until his third day of class that he found out why. Molly was so distracted coming out of chemistry she almost passed right by John where he stood in front of an information table in the corridor. She seemed to be trying to engage a tall, dark haired boy in conversation—almost completely unsuccessfully.

"Molly?" he said when she passed him by.

Her head snapped around.

"Oh! John!" she said in surprise.

The boy's head turned as well. John recognized him now. It was the student he ran into three days ago. The way he looked at John now was strange—almost like he was surprised to see him there. Then his eyes focused sharply for a second, like he was assessing the shorter boy. Then he spun on his heel and continued down the hallway, leaving Molly looking a little lost.

"Ah… I'm sorry. I didn't mean to interrupt," John apologized.

Molly just looked down at the floor and smiled in her personal defence.

"Oh, no, it's absolutely fine… he's always like that… always," she finished.

She didn't meet John's eyes but he could hear it in her voice—Molly had a crush, though, sadly an unrequited one apparently. For his own part, John gazed curiously down the hall but there was no sign of the boy anymore.

"That was Sherlock Holmes, wasn't it?" John asked.

Molly looked up quickly.

"You know Sherlock Holmes?" she asked.

"Not really. We just bumped into each other a few days ago when I was on my tour," John explained.

"Oh… he's my lab partner," Molly said.

"Oh, yeah? Is he really as clever as Greg says?" John asked, interested in the validity of everything Greg said but thought it rude to ask.

Molly was just looking at him like he'd said something silly—Molly, the most docile person he'd ever met. Perhaps Greg wasn't that much of a gossip after all.

"Yes… he's that clever," Molly said, as she was talking about something dangerous.

John didn't know how exactly to respond to that.

. . .

About a week after John arrived at the Baker Institute he lay awake in his twin bed, staring sleeplessly at the ceiling. He hadn't gone into the forest or shifted much at all in the past forty eight hours and now there was a twisting, tugging sensation just below his heart. He figured he might be able to shift in the room and try and sleep like that, and while that was the most comfortable way to sleep on any given night, right now the wolf in him wanted to run, to breathe fresh air.

This is how John ended up crossing the damp grass of the field between A Wing and the forest. He had pulled on a thick jumper but he still had his fisted hands stuffed firmly under his arms to ward off the cold.

John had to admit it felt fantastic to shift into his wolf form. Changing was like you were tied up with restraints around your chest and then all of them just falling away at once. Once John stood on four legs, he took a moment to stretch, hard nails curling into the soft ground with pleasure. He shook his head once, moving his marker into the most comfortable place beneath his ruff. Then John started to run.

It wasn't exactly a slow run but it was a leisurely pace for John's fit, wolf body and he could sustain it for hours if need be. This body was built for endurance. If only he could draw from that during rugby matches…

John ran and ran, revelling in the simplicity of speed and scent, but then he felt it—the tickle in his mind. He stopped suddenly, paws digging little ruts in the malleable earth.

Finally alone, John's curiosity got the best of him and he wandered in the direction he thought the feeling came from. His nose worked madly. There was definitely something alive and breathing nearby.

_Curiosity. _**Hello?** _Caution._

John knew it was pointless to call but he tried anyway. The smell was surely the scent of a Changeling.

**I can really hear you. I've been hearing you since you arrived… **_Fascination. _**And you can hear me, too…**

John spun in place, ears back and entire body snapping with tension. His muzzle pointed up a tree and he met a pair of steel blue eyes. They tilted, considering.

_Surprise. _**Even the direction is obvious to you, as if I spoke aloud.**

A multitude of vague, shadowed feelings flickered on the edge of John's consciousness, all connected to the intense eyes above. Then in a single fluid motion the speaker dropped from the tree and landed on the soft ground.

**A panther…**

John thought it had been a private thought, but apparently not. The heavy black head rose up aristocratically.

**A melanistic leopard, actually. **_**Panther **_**is a dreadfully nonspecific term that is used to refer to many melanistic felines—jaguars, cougars, bobcats and even black wild cats, of which I am none.**

So a _pretentious _panther. John was fairly sure he'd kept that comment in his own head but at the light narrowing of the Changeling's eyes he was unsure.

**If you care I'm a timber wolf.** John supplied.

**I know, **_**Canis lupus lupus. **_**Grey wolf, probably Eurasian by your size, and probably of a central European persuasion from your coloring. Your name is John Watson.**

That surprised John a fair bit.

**What? I mean… yes, but how did you know that? Who I am, I mean.**

Not that John had been super secretive but he'd kept a fairly low profile in his classes so far and hadn't told more than a few people what his shift was.

The panther rose up and began to circle him, making John feel a little uncomfortable.

**I told you I have been hearing you, so I followed and have seen you in the forest. So to start, the way you move in this place is still unsure. You use your own scent trail to get back to the field, plus your collar is brand new. So obviously you are a new student, and the way you move your head when you are smelling shows how unused to having such heightened senses you are, so you aren't a transfer student but a new Changeling altogether, but your shift is fully mature. The only new Changeling on campus who would be old enough for their shift to look like yours is John Watson.**

John was about to reply when the panther flipped the direction of his contemplating circle, his left side now visible to John. If he hadn't been a wolf with an inability to make such a noise, John may have gasped softly.

The full moon lit the forest well enough but even without the light it would have been hard to miss the raking black scars marring the panther's beautiful pelt all the way from his shoulder to his stomach. On a human it would have run from a shoulder blade to all the way to a point between navel and hip.

It was clear the panther had noticed his scrutiny and in response its ears flattened and its eyes narrowed for just a second before he abruptly switched directions again, hiding the scars from view. And then John's mind was nearly assaulted.

**When did you injure your left knee?**

If the panther had been trying to distract him he had been wildly successful.

_Confusion. _**What?**

_Impatience. _**Your left knee, when did it get injured? I know it was from rugby but **_**when **_**did occur? **_Pride._

John was floored.

**Seven months ago.**

The panther's eyes closed and his head dipped to the side as if John's answered had confirmed a theory.

**How could you **_**possibly **_**know that? **_Disbelief._

**I've seen you around campus.** was all he said at first but when John narrowed his eyes, the panther's tail waved in apparent pleasure.

**Your bag, you were wearing it over your left shoulder so it hung on the right, but you are left handed, so it would be more natural to have your bag on the side where you could more easily access it but no, it was on the right. This means that you most likely suffered a relatively recent injury to your dominant side, but you still completely favour your left **_**hand. **_**So, it was most likely a leg injury and you moved your bag to take the weight of your it away from your injured leg. I also noticed you had a large number of rugby pins on your bag and with your build I would assume you play, not just a fan—probably play either hooker or scrum-half but since we started this conversation I am leaning towards scrum-half. Anyway, the fact that you play such a violent sport I would believe that your leg injury was most likely a knee injury due to their high rates in contact sports. This is all confirmed by the fact that when you stand still you still habitually favour your left leg, rarely leaning on it. Even in your shifted form you do this, but you are totally unhindered when you walk or run, which tells me the injury is older and for the most part fully healed. From the amount of habits that were formed I would say that the injury was fairly serious ligament damage and considering the amount of time an injury like that takes to heal and the fact that the habits haven't faded yet, I would guess the injury occurred at least five months ago but no more than nine. So in conclusion, rugby induced injury to the left knee occurring five to nine months ago.**

John knew that his mouth was parted. He leaned back on his haunches.

**Wow… that was… absolutely brilliant.**

The panther stopped and sat down abruptly, looking at John intently.

**So are you scrum-half or hooker?**

John would have chuckled.

**Scrum-half, substitute hooker... at least I was. I'm trying out for Baker's team tomorrow.**

The steel eyes had warmed to pale blue.

**So… brilliant...? Really?**

John's mouth curled into a wolfy smile and he looked out into the forest.

**Definitely. Completely bloody brilliant**.

The mysterious Changeling paused and then stood suddenly. John held fast as the big cat thoroughly invaded his personal space. John's ears were pricked forwards as two clear blue eyes studied him through a sideways glance. He was close enough that all John would have to do was turn his head to stick his cold, wet nose into the fluffy, erect ear of the panther. John wondered idly how the jumpy cat would react. John met his eyes evenly.

**Hmm… interesting…**

Then the panther was gone, disappearing into the protection of the trees. It should have bothered John that he didn't know who the strange Changeling was, or frustrated him that he had been too distracted to even remember to ask his name, but there would be time for that tomorrow. Right now John only felt the pulse against his mind. He could tell that the Changeling had tried to cover his feelings but when he had spoken it slipped through the gap. The panther had been _flattered… _flooded with prideful pleasure.

A wheezing noise and a little bark escaped John's throat, the wolf equivalent of laughter.

So a pretentious, _vain _panther then.


	3. Contact

**Author's Notes:**This will be a full length AU fic and will be posted up here as I finish and my lovely, amazing beta **kathecello **cleans them up! This chapter is rated teen, will go up in later chapters. Warnings for the whole story: general adult themes, swearing, mentions of child abuse, violence and graphic sex. Love to hear from readers, hope you all enjoy! Reviewers earn my undying love.

_**How to Make a Heart out of Ashes: **Contact_

_by Teumessian_

That night, once John made it back to his room, he spent even more time staring sleeplessly at the ceiling, imagining arctic eyes staring back. His sheets were tangled around his legs and his duvet was tossed aside. He'd pulled off his shirt a while ago. Why did they keep this place so hot? John kept glancing at the clock, ticking away the minutes like a countdown, until he wouldn't have time to get enough sleep to be _functional _tomorrow, let alone make a rugby team.

Finally fed up, John hopped out of bed and shoved the window open as wide as it could go. The cold air hit him, making him shudder. He shed his pyjama bottoms and they fell to the floor, joining his discarded tee-shirt. Then he dropped from two legs to four and jumped back on the bed. He dug himself a little nest of blankets and collapsed. He buried his nose under his pillow, thick fur protecting him from the draft chilling draft. John would find out who the panther was tomorrow. He'd ask Greg—Greg might know.

It wasn't long before John finally lost consciousness and slipped into strange dreams of black cats, green woods and piercing eyes.

The next morning John felt much more rested than anyone who had slept so little had a right to. He sat, thinking, across the table from Greg, who also seemed fully awake and was focusing intently on shovelling as much bacon, eggs and toast down his throat as he possibly could. The dining hall was located on the first floor of A Wing and was relatively quiet, as most students were still asleep or too lazy to do more than grab a slice of toast on their way to classes.

For his part John was more focused on his tea than the mediocre breakfast that was provided by the school.

"Do you know anyone with a panther shift?" John asked, breaking into the sound of cutlery on plates.

Greg glanced up at him, pausing in his shovelling.

"A panther shift?"

John nodded and Greg cocked his head to the side and looked up as he chewed a mouthful of toast, obviously scanning his memory banks.

"I don't think so," he finally said. "What colour was its marker?"

"Wasn't wearing one," John said.

At that, Greg nodded and looked back to his food as if the mystery had been solved without John knowing it.

"Probably a Wanderer then," he said around a mouthful of eggs. "It's not uncommon for them to drift through Baker's forest. They smell just like us so it wouldn't be hard to mix it up."

Greg tapped his nose as he said this and John knew what he meant. They were both canine shifts so identified many things by scent alone, and he trusted John would understand.

John had heard about Wanderers. They were Changelings who permanently shifted, and then did as their name implied—they wandered. As far as John knew, there was no rhyme or reason to it. A Changeling would get this fever, and then it would go away. They'd be fine, but in the next few days the Changeling would shift, wander into the wilderness and never return. Once it started it couldn't be stopped. It was an accepted fact among Changelings.

John wasn't sure if his panther fit into the stories he'd heard about Wanderers and he was about to ask more but was distracted.

"So you're going to try out for Baker's rugby team today, right?" Greg asked as he picked a powdered donut off his plate.

When John visited Dr. Mortimer the other day as the man had requested, the councillor had helped him connect with the rugby team—after he had been sure John was adjusting okay. Actually, they had both been surprised with how well John was getting along. It's not that John had been _unhappy_ with his old life—it was just… nothing. Nothing ever happened to the Normal that was John Watson. It was almost like he'd been waiting for something, and now he knew what that something had been, at least a part of it. John was still looking for a true purpose of course, but it was like his Change was him finally receiving the first piece of that puzzle. He supposed he should be missing his family, and though it wasn't like he was happy to be gone, it felt right. His parents had never been distant but John had never been very emotionally or socially dependent on them. Plus, he was a sixth former, who full well had planned to go somewhere far away from his personal nothing-town—off to find himself as they said. He hadn't expected or wanted the Change but it had inadvertently supplied John with many things he had wanted.

"Umm… yeah," John replied, dropping out of his reverie. "At three."

Greg bobbed his head and took another bite of his donut.

"Well, good luck," Greg said, returning his focus to the last remnants of his breakfast.

John drained the last of his tea.

"Thanks, but let's hope I don't need it…"

. . .

At three o'clock on the dot, John found himself at the edge of BI's practice pitch in his old training gear. As he approached a big boy in Baker's black and silvers came to meet him. He loped over and smiled easily as he came close.

"John Watson?" he asked and John nodded, returning the smile. "Bill Murray, not the actor."

John laughed and took the offered hand, clasping back with equal strength, knowing now was the time to make a good impression.

When Bill took his hand back, he gave John a once over with his eyes, and he could easily see what Bill was thinking—he'd have to make sure he proved that size wasn't all that mattered by the end of this tryout.

"So what positions do you play?" Bill asked him, at least having the tact not to _comment _on John's lack of height verbally.

The question immediately brought up images from the forest, of the elusive panther and his seemingly psychic abilities. He gave the same answer.

"I played scrum-half and subbed for hooker more than once."

"Yeah?" Bill asked, looking pleased. "Our scrum-half is graduating this year so let's hope you turn out to be good enough to replace him!"

Bill was straightforward—honest. John liked that. He identified.

"Shift?" Bill asked.

"Hm? John looked up. "Oh, Eurasian wolf. You?"

John didn't miss the fact that he had used the word the panther had for his shift. Bill's face lit up, though, and he clapped his hand down on John's shoulder.

"Ah, brilliant! That's what I like to hear. I wonder what other fierce things you are hiding inside, Watson. I'm an elk, myself, and don't make a rack joke, but yes, mine is quite nice."

He winked and John couldn't help but laugh, even if he did think him the worst perpetrator of inappropriate rack jokes.

John had no trouble noticing Bill's excitement when he said he had a wolf shift. While there was surely not a whole lot of scientific evidence on the subject, the most Changelings believed there was a lot to be said about a person from their shift. John didn't have enough personal experience in the area to have much on an opinion on the subject himself but he hadn't seen any evidence against the generally accepted theory either.

"So ready to get started?"

"I don't see any reason why not," John said; all of John's nervousness had been diffused by Bill's relaxed personality and easy joking.

"Oy! Seb! Sebastian!" Bill called towards the group of blokes warming up on the pitch.

A taller boy with dark hair separated from the group and trotted over. He was well muscled and his eyes were sharp.

"What's up, Bill?" the boy asked.

"This is John Watson. He's our new potential scrum-half," Bill explained. "John this is Seb Moran."

His dark eyes ran up and down John as bill's had, sizing him up, quite literally. There was only a fraction of hesitation before Sebastian smiled and offered his hand.

"Nice to meet you. Is he any good?" Sebastian added to Bill.

"That's for us to find out! Let's get going."

John's tryout wasn't so much a one on one evaluation as a trial practice. John practiced with the team and Bill and Seb, as well as the coach, an eagle shift by the name of Hills, watched him play and interact with the team. John pushed himself. His injury had forced him to stop playing for a while and he was worried he'd be too rusty but as always, a strange, hostile calm came over John when he was faced with the challenge of this brutal game.

By the end of practice John was bruised, sweaty, exhausted, and completely elated. Oh, how he'd missed this. At the end of practice Bill and Sebastian approached him. Everyone was still trying to catch their breath.

"How'd I do?" John huffed.

"Impressively, mate," Seb smiled, his own chest rising and falling quickly.

"Fantastic," Bill added. "Never seen someone so calm in the face of getting trampled. You've got hunter's eyes is what you have, John Watson."

John felt the back of his neck go even redder than it already was under the praise.

"So am I in?" John had to ask.

"'Course you're in!" Bill said enthusiastically. "Practices are on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays. Don't be late!"

Bill and Sebastian then turned and left John basking in the pleasure of making a team. It's not that John had been particularly worried, but being chosen always felt brilliant.

. . .

John didn't really have time to go into the forest on his own for the next few days. He had rugby and the first big essay for school to finish before Friday. The few times he had gone into the woods it was either with Greg or Mike and so John saw no sign of the elusive panther. This nagged him more than he would have thought. John would have assumed the creature had moved on if not for the occasional flicker at the edge of his mind.

Sometimes it was stronger than a flicker and very occasionally John would accidentally think aloud and the air would think back. John might comment on the brook, or on a certain flower and if he ever, _ever _said anything that was not the absolute truth there was inevitably a whisper of correction in his mind.

**That's not actually the trillium's **_**flower. **_**The **_**parts**_** that look like petals are actually bracts, specialized leaves with different pigmentation than the rest of the plant.**

Every time John had to try very hard not to bark out in laughter and he often failed. For a Changeling that was hiding from people he was rather noisy.

_Confusion. Concern._

This was a tentative question from mike when a wheezy bark slipped out unprompted. John was studied through the masked eyes of Mike's raccoon shift.

_Void. Contentment._

'It's nothing,' the message meant. The raccoon just shrugged his furry shoulders and they continued on. John's eyes scanned the trees for a condescending presence.

. . .

Sherlock Holmes was a terrible student. One would expect him to be a perfect example of a brilliant pupil—he was quiet, and an absolute genius, but no, he was the absolute worst of students. If he thought the assignment or content of a class was valid or useful he would do his work, he _might _even pay attention in class if it was a lucky day, but if Sherlock thought an assignment was pointless, or the topic was useless, you could kiss any hope of receiving coursework on it goodbye.

He always got top marks on the coursework he _did _do and on any exams he sat, which meant he never failed the course, but that only infuriated his teachers more because it validated his actions. Usually they wondered why he even bothered to continue courses at all. What his teachers and professors did not know was that 'the hands that be' had threatened to cut his access to cold Scotland Yard cases completely if he didn't finish school—through university.

Currently the arrogant child sat at the back of a second year University bio-chem class. He'd long ago gained permission to take the university courses at BI. He'd already read, absorbed, and stored all the information that this course had to offer, but taking it gave Sherlock access to uni labs and, even better, uni chemicals.

Now though, the teacher was just droning on and on and Sherlock was so bored that he wanted to run his head through a wall. The only thing that stopped him from doing just that were the thoughts of his wolf—the anomaly that was John Watson. By event John was interesting. He was a late Change, a timing almost as rare as Sherlock's own. Then, also by event, there was the shift-speech—they could speak as if they were in human form—an open bond. Sherlock couldn't mistake the symptoms. But those things only defined _what _John was, and _who _the young Changeling was, was a whole other matter of an entirely more fascinating nature. His personality, the way he reacted to Sherlock, to life, was like nobody else he'd ever met. He was easily impressed but not easily won over, he was cautious but not easily startled, and he was smart—not a genius, not brilliant, but surely a cut above most of the dullards that he usually found if unbearable to interact with.

But John hadn't been out to the woods alone in _days, _which certainly didn't ease his mounting displeasure. He'd only been out with those stupid friends of his and he's been exhausted even then. Sherlock could tell. He barely had hope of seeing him for a number of days more on top of the last three. So currently he was running on just the lightest slips of thoughts, which he was of course able to learn much with, but not nearly as much as he wanted. It was agonizing and unfair.

Sherlock was distracted from his musing—pouting—by the sound of a door opening to his right. By now they were working on practice equations so the entry of one student shouldn't have been noticed by the masses, but _this _student was Irene Adler, a young fox-shift with the Baker Institute firmly situated under her stiletto heel. Sherlock knew it was mostly because she regularly slept with professors, teachers and anyone else she needed something from. One would assume that information would have been valuable, that it would give Sherlock power over the woman if he ever had an interest, but it wouldn't. Irene never hid her abilities or her methods and it rarely made them any less effective.

Now, Sherlock was certainly not _friends _with Irene Adler, but she was different from the majority of the population in that she was one of the few students at the Baker Institute who never hesitated to speak directly to him—whether his disapproval of this habit got through to her was another matter entirely.

The young woman swayed down the aisle, hips swinging confidently, as they always did. She approached the professor. She then leaned upon the desk and put on a highly convincing apologetic mask. It set Sherlock's teeth on edge that he couldn't help but feel a grudging admiration towards the woman. He saw how she opened her eyes wide and leaned in close. She was speaking and as she did her hand moved forward and then _contact—_just the lightest brush of fingers over knuckles, but it achieved the intended goal with graceful ease. It was amazing what contact could do. Even from his seat, Sherlock could see Dr Ebert's neck go red around his collar and he would bet money on noticeable pupil dilation. The man nodded and stuttered a few words and then Irene smiled. She reintroduced the touch—reward—and then she moved away.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and idly wrote an answer to a chemistry problem just for something to do.

"Needed an extension on a paper?" Sherlock couldn't help but toss out as she passed.

He sighed internally. He was going to pay for his lack of self control.

She stopped and smiled down at him. Three steps and she was leaning on his desk just as she had Dr Ebert's.

"I'm just so busy," she said with a so-obviously-faked troubled expression that could only make Sherlock roll his eyes again and go back to his practice work, determined to ignore her.

Unfortunately he was wildly unsuccessful and his unbearable need to have the last word got the best of him.

"Your intellect is wasted on you," he spat.

Irene only laughed, irritating him further and leaned off his desk.

"Oh, _quite _the contrary," she said, leaning in close to whisper in his ear. "I believe it is_ you _who could learn a thing or two about application."

Sherlock leaned away from her intrusion of his personal space, which was probably hypocritical but he really didn't care.

Then she was gone, leaving Sherlock scowling and still definitely not pouting.

. . .

Four whole days passed before John was finally able to make it out to the woods alone. Coach Hills had been working him to the bone to get him back up to match standard. He was more out of shape than he had been in a long while, his knee having prevented him from playing for far too long—seven months he corrected himself, though he would be lying if he didn't hear it in the panther's voice. In direct response to all of this, John was falling directly into bed as soon as he finished his coursework for the night and then he slept like the dead, but today there hadn't been practice and he was itching for a run in the moonlight. He considered asking Greg to join him but he secretly was hoping to encounter the panther and he'd sensed the Changeling's disapproval of his usual company whenever he'd inadvertently touched minds with him in the past few days.

John sprinted up the bank of the creek and revelled in the speed. There was mist hanging in the air and the tendrils threaded through his long guard hairs as he ran. There was really no comparison to the freedom he felt just _going _like this.

He kept his mind open, for any trace of the panther. For a while there was nothing. Then, there it was, the static striking him. He slowed gracefully, no longer surprised by the feeling.

Now where was that smug shadow?

John wandered through the mist, towards where he thought the spark had originated. It had been small though, and indistinct, which made it difficult to tell.

**Where are you?** he called into the night.

There was no distinct response.

_Challenge. Curiosity._

For some reason John couldn't put into words, John understood this meant that the panther wanted to… experiment. To see if John could find him? By voice? By smell? He couldn't be sure.

**I know you can hear me.**

John wasn't particularly in the mood for hunting for a black leopard in the dark even if he probably _could _do so if he applied himself. So perhaps it was his instincts trying to help him avoid such a prospect which caused him to say what he said next.

**Oh, come on, now… This is ridiculous… Here kitty-kitty—**

_Indignation! Surprise. Disapproval._

Then John heard something heavy drop to the damp forest floor only a dozen or so meters ahead of him. He didn't hesitate to trot towards it.

**I am a **_**melantistic leopard. **_**Not—a—kitty.** the panther said crossly as John came close enough to see him.

His claws dug into the loam and his strong shoulders were rolled back proudly and John smiled with his eyes. If he'd been human at the moment he may have giggled.

**Yes, yes, I'm sorry. My bad.**

The panther's grey-blue eyes narrowed, scepticism flowing off him in waves. He seemed to decide to let it go when John began to walk again. He still felt too restless to sit still and, as he'd hoped, the panther followed him. John thought the panther was deliberately staying on his left, so only his unmarred right side was usually visible to John. John would notice he did this whenever they'd walk like this in the coming weeks. Currently, they padded forward in silence, but for no more than a minute before John spoke.

**Are you a Wanderer?** he asked.

The panther's tail lashed and a light huff of a hiss slipped from his lungs.

**Of course not. Don't be purposefully obtuse. If I was, how would we even be talking?**

John glanced back at the large creature. The fur on his shoulders stuck up in irritation at John's apparently stupid question. John wondered, now and many times later, why the panther followed him at all if he so often annoyed him so much, but then, the _world _as a whole seemed to annoy the Changeling so perhaps it wasn't a variable.

**Wanderers can't talk?** John asked, ignoring the insult that had been paired with the rhetorical inquiry.

**Of course not. All Changelings know Wanderers are little more than true animals after their last shift. Some say brand new Wanderers may be able to convey **_**something **_**but Wanderers are completely gone to the civilized world.** the panther quickly explained.

Since John arrived at the Baker Institute he realized just how little the general public understood Changelings beyond the basic symptoms of their condition, and having been part of that 'general public' up until a few weeks ago, John's knowledge was rather lacking. He thought he'd been taking his ignorance in good grace at least, and attempting to abate it sooner rather than later. 'Wait, what?' was currently John Watson's favourite phrase.

**Oh… so you must be a student then. You sound too young to be a teacher.**

John had the urge to just cut straight to the point and ask 'who are you?' but for some reason it felt like cheating.

**Brilliant deduction.**

The tone was dry and condescending and John had to resist the urge to swat the big cat upside the head with his tail.

**If you're a student, then why don't you wear a marker?** John asked, aware of the red leather strap around his own neck.

They were approaching the creek again. John liked the creek and his aimless wanderings often aimed him here.

**The markers' primary role, whatever the school claims, is to stop Changelings who enjoy hunting in their shift forms from accidentally eating other Changelings who may be unable to shift-speak effectively enough to communicate, but nobody is going to accidentally hunt a **_**leopard **_**in the British woodlands.**

**Fair enough. **_Amusement._

John couldn't help but believe that the lack of necessity was only part of the feline's motivation for abstaining from the mandatory practice. John was sure there was some amount of vanity involved.

John glanced over his shoulder and in response the panther's furry ears swivelled forward attentively. John smiled, as much as he possibly could in this form, and then something he never expected came to pass. The panther smiled, too, wholeheartedly. John wouldn't have been able to tell anyone exactly how he knew, as it wasn't as if the panther's mouth moved at all—but perhaps it was the light shift in his eyes, the way they warmed from cloudy grey to blue, or maybe he just felt it on the edge of his mind, but whatever it was, the panther was smiling at John. It was new, and John liked it. There was more than cold brilliance and arrogant disdain in this Changeling then, John thought.

After that night John made a point of coming to the forest alone as often as he could. The panther wasn't _always _there but much more often than not, the shadow would appear. He was highly fickle though and John quickly learned the rules of engagement.

Rule one, do not ask, talk about, or more than glance at the strange Changeling's scars. Any encounter would immediately be aborted if John broke this rule. John had learned this the hard way on one occasion.

That evening the two Changelings were relaxing in a copse of thickly trunked trees, when the panther seemed to forget himself and stretched luxuriously, left side completely in view, scars exposed. John couldn't help it, he looked and before he even had a chance to realize his slip, as he often failed to keep his words properly inside his head where they belonged, the words escaped into the air.

**What are they from?**

It was hushed and tentative but he really hadn't meant to ask. John wasn't stupid and he knew better as looking alone had the Changeling up a tree and refusing to come down more than once before. But he'd been so relaxed and the inquiry slipped into the open. It was too late, though. The skittish creature tensed and then stalked away, head low, until he reached the closest, densely leaved tree and climbed up and out of sight.

John apologized repeatedly, and even called him childish once, but nothing he said would convince the great cat to descend from his hidden perch that day.

Fortunately though, no matter what pitfall John fell into on any given night, each new moon he seemed to be given a clean slate.

Rule two was more self-inflicted than laid upon him. John was not allowed to ask who the panther was. It may have been John's own rule but it still counted and seemed to be mutually agreed upon. The panther hadn't asked who John was, but found out on his own, and John wouldn't ask either. His eyes were always open though, in class, in the corridors, in the dining halls, for any sign that would give the Changeling away. But he found nothing. The panther was much better at this than John could expect and sometimes he wondered if the Changeling was even real at all, and not just some psychic phantom that appeared in Baker Forest.

And yet, still each day John looked. Every day John listened, and each day that passed, the part of his mind that was weighed down by the mystery of the sharp eyed panther grew a little larger.


	4. Eyes

******Author's Notes:**This will be a full length AU fic and will be posted up here as I finish and my lovely, amazing beta, **kathecello, **********cleans them up! This is currently very low teen but the ratings will go up further along. Warnings for the whole story: general adult themes, swearing, mentions of child abuse, violence and graphic sex.****

****I love to hear from everyone =] all your lovely reviews make my day  
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_**How to Build a Heart out of Ashes: **__Eyes_

_by Teumessian_

It was his eyes that gave him away in the end. Every logical clue John had tried to apply, how he had tried to estimate his age, how he'd eavesdropped for that arrogant tone, the condescending sentence structure—he'd even tried to guess what his human form would look like, for all the good that did—all these attempts had been absolute failures, however, and it was a pair of eyes that had ended the game.

This time it was John who didn't see Molly as she came out of her chemistry class. He was checking over his chemistry homework. He heard the students coming out of class, and normally he would have begun to pick Molly out of the crowd, but he was second guessing his answer to question six, brow furrowed in concentration.

"John?" Molly's voice cut into his stream of thought on oxidization reactions.

John looked up. Molly stood smiling in front of him. Her hair was down today and a yellow clip pulled her bags away from her face. John noticed all this in the half second it took for him to begin to open his mouth to greet his friend and then to feel the greeting die in his throat as a tall shape moved behind her.

It was the boy he'd crashed into on his first day at the Baker Institute, the boy who looked at him strangely when he was waiting for Molly the other day—Sherlock Holmes. Maybe it was the way his dark brown hair shone like ebony in the fluorescent lighting that snagged his attention or maybe it was the way his head twitched to the side when Molly said John's name, but whatever it was, it caused John's gaze to flick upwards for the second it took to lock eyes with a strangely familiar stare.

Like a flash bulb bursting in front of his eyes, John saw black fur across hunched shoulders, curved claws digging into tree bark, whiskers twitching in surprise.

They both seemed frozen for a moment. Sherlock recovered first and his eyes closed, releasing John before he turned away, school coat flaring dramatically. It only brought another image of a tail swishing in agitation as an irritated feline made an exit.

"Ah—it's him!" John's throat finally unstuck.

John's lips were parted lightly as his head mechanically tracked the Changeling all the way down the corridor and around a corner, seemingly the only part of John that wasn't still mostly paralyzed. Then he was out of sight and John's body caught up with his mind. He lurched forward suddenly.

"I... I'm sorry," John tripped over an apology thrown in Molly's direction and began moving down the corridor. "I'll catch up with you later, Molly."

The last comment was hastily tossed over his shoulder.

"Ah… ah, okay," he heard a confused Molly as he rushed away.

John was slowed by the large numbers of students that were now pouring out of every door in front of him, and the heavy chemistry book seemed to catch its corners on an inexplicable amount of bag straps and knapsacks. John dodged a secondary student to turn down the small corridor he thought the Changeling had disappeared into.

At first John thought he'd been mistaken and the odd boy known as Sherlock Holmes had disappeared completely, but he judged the short length of the hallway and the very few doors that marked its walls and decided that it was most reasonable to assume Holmes could have vanished into any one of them before John caught up. He hesitated now though, and in his pause he was ever more aware of the fact that he had just chased—still was chasing—a fellow student through Baker Hall. What was he doing? He should really be getting back to the chemistry room; classes would be starting soon.

Instead, John compromised. There was a study hall at the end of the corridor. It wouldn't seem crazy to walk into a public study hall, so he would just check there and if he didn't find what he was looking for there he would go straight back to class.

John was late for chemistry that day.

John stopped again in the doorway to the study hall, head up and scanning, heavy text book still under his arm. The students in the seats closest to the door looked up at him questioningly but they barely registered in John's mind. John was about to give up when he finally saw him, tucked in a corner with his nose buried it a book at least twice as thick as John's chemistry text.

John smiled and made a beeline for the back table. The curly haired Changeling didn't look up when John came to a stop beside him. It may have been an off putting response to a stranger, but each terse action made by Sherlock only solidified John's believe that Sherlock Holmes wasn't a stranger at all.

"You're the panther, aren't you?" John blurted when he was close.

Sherlock finally looked up at him. It made John think that if he'd tried a little harder he may have indeed been able to match the Changeling to his shift on looks. The cheekbones, the ice blue eyes, the intensity that shrouded him, now that John knew who he was, the two images became inseparable in his mind.

"Took you long enough to figure it out," he said dryly.

John only smiled wider.

"Well not all of us are psychic," John teased.

In response, Sherlock let out an offended huff.

"I am _not _psychic. What I do is a _science,_" Sherlock spat.

"Science of what?" John asked, honestly curious.

Sherlock's disdain softened to a more subtle pride.

"The science of _deduction_," he explained. "The science of noticing all the little details that everyone misses and understanding what they mean. I can tell a professor by the chalk on his collar or a primary teacher by the finger paint on her wrist. I can tell a business man from a con man by the cut of his suit and I can tell that you are a good student and don't take any milk in your tea."

John's heart beat strongly—he was excited. Everything Sherlock said resonated with the already present reservoir of memories John had of the panther.

"How?" John asked, knowing he was meant to ask.

"Tea stains on your chemistry book. You study during your breakfast and occasionally spill tea on your book. The stains are too dark for tea with any milk in it and the stains are at different levels of aging, which means you've done this more than once—as you aren't particularly clumsy, you must study at breakfast regularly. You'd have to have the book out a lot for it to get spilled on more than once."

John thought his grin might split his face.

"Amazing," John said, half at what he said, half at how he said it.

Sherlock's eyebrows shot up in surprise and John's mouth was open to say more when a bell rang. Passing period was over.

"Oh, bloody hell," John swore. "I'm supposed to be in chemistry."

John readjusted his back on his shoulder and began to move away.

"We'll talk later, okay?" he said, looking over his shoulder to make sure Sherlock knew he was serious.

Sherlock, who normally had the upper hand in any conversation, had the rug pulled out from under him by John's relaxed words. Nobody had spoken to him like that in human form before, and without the shield of anonymity and mystery that his shifted form provided, his mind was adjusting much slower than he was used to. He nodded in response and John smiled again, before turning away completely and rushing towards the door. Sherlock watched him go. Neither student noticed the raised eyebrows of their fellow Changelings.

. . .

John kept his eyes open for Sherlock Holmes for the rest of the day, but he didn't see hide nor hair of the antisocial Changeling.

At dinner John made his apologies to Molly.

"I'm sorry about earlier, Molly," John said over the clatter of cutlery.

She looked up and smiled after a second

"Oh, no, it's okay," she said, and she opened her mouth to continue but she was interrupted.

"What did you do to Molly?"

Two dinner trays clacked against the table as Greg and Mike joined John and Molly. Mike was still in his uniform but Greg had a sweater pulled on over his half unbuttoned school shirt, both sleeves pushed up.

"Yeah, what have you done _this _time?" Mike teased as he sat.

John hesitated for a moment but decided it couldn't hurt to tell his friends. In the short meeting he had with Sherlock Holmes their game had ended. It was time to step out of the shadows of the forest.

"I found out who the panther shift is… and then I may have chased him down the hallway," John giggled, knowing how absolutely ridiculous it must sound.

The reactions were about what one would expect from such a preposterous, unhelpful explanation. Molly just looked completely lost, and Greg's eyebrows were threatening to disappear under his hairline.

"Wait… backup. What's this about a panther?" Mike asked, fork of mashed potatoes hanging in the air.

"Good question!" Greg said and stabbed the air with his fork for punctuation. "You never really explained that."

Molly just watched him with patient but poignant curiosity. John just shrugged.

"I met a panther shift in Baker Forest not long after I arrived here," John explained, pushing some peas across his plate. "And then ran into him many more times after that. We talked and he was strange but…"

John shrugged once more, unsure how to put it into words.

"You spoke?" Mike asked.

"Well, shift speech," John amended, even if he could speak to the panther far more extensively than any other shifted Changeling.

"So, who was it?" Molly finally spoke up, obviously enticed by the more mysterious aspect of John's story.

John snagged a piece of roast pork with his fork and, without the bat of an eyelid, he answered the question with an answer he saw no problem with.

"Sherlock Holmes."

Simultaneously, Molly's lips popped apart in surprise, Mike spluttered into his drink, and Greg nearly choked on steamed peas. John, oblivious as ever, continued to eat his dinner.

. . .

John awoke to the sound of his phone buzzing obnoxiously against his bedside table. He absently rolled over and groped in the general direction of the offending noise, smacking at it until it stopped. He then fisted his hands in his duvet and pulled it tightly around him. It was a Saturday and far too early to be disturbed.

Unfortunately, a peaceful morning was not in the cards for John, and he never slipped back into restful oblivion. After a moment or so, his phone buzzed again, cut out and then buzzed again, the way it did when he received texts in quick succession. With a grunt, John reached for his phone and opened his eyes, still sticky with sleep. He brought the phone up in front of his face to read the messages, but the light was too bright and he had to squeeze his eyes tightly shut and open them again a number of times before he could focus on any of the characters on the screen. The first text was from an unknown number.

**Fancy a trip to London? Please come if convenient.-SH**

Even John's sleep addled brain was quick to work out just who SH must be. John thumbed the down button and the next message popped up on screen.

**If inconvenient, come anyway.-SH**

This should have irritated John, and if he still wasn't so pleased about figuring out that the panther was none other than Sherlock Holmes, he may have been , but right now he just clicked the down button one last time, to the last unopened message.

**There could be trouble.-SH**

A sleepy bubble of laughter escaped John's throat and he selected the reply option.

**Why the hell not?**

John hit send and rolled onto his back, drowsy smile still on his face.

He lay like that for a few moments before he worked up the motivation to pull himself from his bed. No sooner had his foot touched the floor than was there a swift rapping of knuckles on his door. John's eyebrows furrowed and he quickly slid on his pajama bottoms and tipped over towards the door. He cursed as he stubbed his toe on a hard backed text book.

When he finally reached the door he twisted the cold knob and wrenched it open. The sight he was met with made him blink blearily another few times.

Sherlock Holmes stood impatiently at his door, rocking back and forth from his heels to the balls of his feet. He wasn't wearing his school uniform, as it was a Saturday. Instead he was wearing a long, trim, black coat that should have made someone his age look silly, but it suited him so well it was as if the coat was made for him. A blue scarf tucked around his neck drew John's attention to the eyes, so familiar from his panther shift.

John stared in confusion as Sherlock took in John's unprepared state, a small frown tugging at the corners of his mouth.

"Wh… what are you doing here?" John mumbled.

Sherlock just seemed more impatient.

"London. We have a train to catch. If we don't hurry we'll miss it."

It was at that moment, standing in his open doorway, shirtless and lousy with sleep, with a demanding boy in a blue scarf determined to drag him to London without warning before eight o'clock on a Saturday morning, that John realized he may have gotten himself into something that was a bit more than he bargained for.

. . .

Somehow John convinced Sherlock to wait for him in the dining hall for the five minutes he needed to get ready. John drug himself over to his wardrobe, avoiding the clutter in his room that had gathered since he arrived at the Baker Institute. The dorm was no longer an empty room. It hadn't taken long for John's books to make their way into stacks in the corners and on the floor, or for his jersey to slouch over the back of his desk chair. John pulled a blue and white striped sweater and a pair or dark jeans out of his closet. He glanced out of his window at the lightening sky before he pulled a light jacket on as well.

John had hoped to grab a cup of tea and at least a little something to eat, but the second he passed under the doorway on the first floor he was ushered out into the morning mist, without even a spare second to even grab a piece of toast.

Somehow, it wasn't until John was sitting on a plush train seat, watching the countryside speed past, that he finally looked over at the young man across from him, who was currently fiddling with a smart phone, and he asked some key questions.

"So… where are we going?" John asked.

Irritated eyes glanced up at him.

"I told you, London," he said shortly.

John gave him a tight, unimpressed grin— to be fair John had every right to be in a mood as the boy had dragged him out of bed before eight on a Saturday.

"No, I—I mean _why _are we going to London?" John clarified.

John had to admit he probably would have agreed to this trip no matter what its purpose for the sheer fact that that John loved London. It had been his intention to go to Uni there and perhaps never leave. Now that he thought about it, the latter part of this was still well within the scope of the future John saw for himself. London had always been there, somewhere ahead of him, and there it still was, a beacon in the dark unknown that was the path ahead.

At John's revised question Sherlock gave him a small smirk. He carefully set his mobile on the arm of the seat.

"There's this book," Sherlock began, theatrically. "A very old, very rare book that was written by and about Changelings. A history, so to speak, it contains one of the most detailed firsthand accounts of the Persecutions."

Even John knew about the Changeling Persecutions of the Dark Ages. It was taught in school along with all the other historic human atrocities—the witch burnings, the crusades, the holocaust… the persecutions occurred during the Middle Ages. During this time Changelings were often hunted like animals, burned on the basis of harboring demons in their flesh, and some were even captured and kept by nobles as 'pets' or in the Royal Menagerie. However, it was said that many Changelings, became more than adept at hiding their natures, as well as their children's, so it was never tied to bloodlines, and for this reason there were even a few remarkable Nobles who were said to be Changelings. Still, it was not a good time to be a Changeling.

"Up until a few months ago, this book was on display in Baker's Library," Sherlock continued. "Then it disappeared without a trace—well mostly. I was able to track the disappearance back to a third year university student, Tracy Williams, whose uncle just so happens to be a collector of rare books. It wasn't so hard to figure out. The uncle, Canton Williams, lives in London."

John just shook his head. He had been sure things like this didn't happen in real life. Well, he'd been wrong about plenty of things before.

"So, where going to his place to…?" John prompted.

"To confirm my deductions," Sherlock said simply.

Sherlock had gone back to doing god knows what on his iphone, but he did glance up questioningly at John when he finished, to see his reaction perhaps.

"Alright," was all John said.

"Yeah?"

"Mhmm…" John gave a nod and then turned back to the window.

There was a smile on his face, and out of the corner of his eye he thought he saw Sherlock smile too.

Canton Williams lived in a nice flat in a large building. It wasn't very old but it certainly wasn't very modern, but it still had a very timeless feel to it. John followed behind Sherlock, hands stuffed in the pockets of his jacket.

"So… what are we going to do? Just knock on his door and hope he lets us in?" John asked.

"Don't be stupid, John," Sherlock said as he began to scan the name plates next to the intercom. "Williams is at work."

"So what are we going to do?"

Sherlock didn't miss a beat.

"We're breaking in of course."

Before John could begin to come up with an appropriate response, Sherlock made a pleased noise.

"Ah! Perfect!" he said and jabbed a button next to a handwritten nameplate.

There was a pause.

"_Sherlock, _what are you doing!" John said a hushed but urgent whisper.

Sherlock shushed him and then turned back to the intercom as a young woman's voice answered.

"Hello?"

"Hello, I—I'm so sorry to bother you," Sherlock said, but his voice was strange. "I'm supposed to be looking after my uncle's fish—they're exotic, you see… and I—I seem to have locked the keys in his flat and if I can't get in to feed them and check the water they could die and—and he lives right below you, and I was wondering if I could use your balcony to get to the fire escape…?"

Sherlock's voice was utterly sincere—it even shook, and it seemed to raise an octave. It contradicted everything John had compiled on Sherlock Holmes, so to him it was obviously an act—the fact that John was regularly exposed directly to Sherlock's pride an arrogance, via shift-speech, didn't hurt his perception of the falsehood, but if he'd been a stranger he would have believed every word. Apparently so did the lady in the flat above Canton Williams'.

"Oh! Umm… yes, yes of course," she said and there was a loud buzz as she opened the door for them.

"Oh, thank you, thank you so much," Sherlock said before opening the door and motioning for John to join him.

"Wh-how did you…?" John asked as he followed Sherlock over the threshold, glancing over at the nameplate as he went.

"She was new," Sherlock explained. "Her name plate was handwritten. She hasn't even been here long enough for them to get her a permanent one yet. She wouldn't know Canton very well if at all, and certainly not his relatives or his habits. Plus her writing indicated a trustworthy personality, the curved m's, the bubbled i's , the general lack of slant… she'd believe anyone who seemed to have good intentions."

All that… from a name plate. John just laughed as he bounded up the stairs two at a time, right behind Sherlock. When they reached the fifth floor, Sherlock paused and turned to John.

"Stay here, I'll go up and get in through the fire escape window—an old building like this it'll be easy to break in even if it is locked. Once I'm in the flat I'll let you in. It's 504," Sherlock said, nodding down the hallway.

Then he was gone again, up the stairs and out of sight. John realized there was something that Sherlock actually _enjoyed—_it was this, the adventure, the risk, a chase, a game. And you know what? John couldn't blame him because there wasn't a single thing that confused him about that. It made perfect sense in his mind. This was exciting, invigorating. John felt like he could run for days—in _human _form. He laughed once more and then went to find the flat of Canton Williams.

John didn't have to wait long in front of the polished mahogany door before he heard a very faint thud and then a few moments later there was a click and the door swung open, revealing an open entry way. Sherlock was already walking away by the time John entered and he suddenly realized that Sherlock was so preoccupied, John had been lucky he remembered to let him at all.

The flat was large and well kept. The décor was classic and expensive, all dark polished wood, plush leather and velvet. John immediately felt totally out of place in the posh, too organized flat.

"Don't touch anything," Sherlock said, and John realized he was still wearing the gloves of thin black leather that he'd been wearing outside.

Right, don't leave fingerprints. Because they were _breaking into somebody's flat. _John had to suppress another giggle.

John followed Sherlock down a short hallway, past a few closed doors, of which Sherlock opened a few and ignored others. It looked random but John was sure there was a method. When Sherlock opened the last door on the left he made an excited exclamation and pushed through.

It was a large sitting room, there was a couch, a few cushy chairs, a writing desk and everywhere else was books. Shelves covered the walls and on little podiums and desks thick, aged volumes were on display.

Sherlock wasted no time and bee lined straight towards a podium backed up against the far wall.

"Yes…" he hissed when he got close enough to be sure.

Every curve in his posture, every line in his face, seemed to scream, 'I was_ right.' _ He beamed back at John and motioned for him to come take a look at the heavy tome.

It was obviously old, very, very old. Its pages were yellowed and stained. The brown leather cover was lightly damaged but all things considered it was in remarkable condition. Sherlock ever so gently opened the creaking cover to reveal the faded but stunningly detailed title page. _A History of the Shifted Souls _it read, but it was like a piece of art, with flowers blooming within the _a, _a rearing war horse in the _h, _a whole flock of birds within the _S _in 'Souls', the impossibly complex knotwork encompassing the whole piece… Even John, who had to admit he had little affinity for the arts, could appreciate the extreme value in the bound pages.

"Wow…" John murmured.

They were both leaned over the priceless artifact, heads close.

"Indeed," Sherlock breathed.

John glanced up at the intense-eyed boy; his pale face was still flickering with elation.

"So what do we do now?" John smiled. "Call the police? Get the guy arrested?"

Sherlock leaned back and swung the backpack he'd brought off his shoulder.

"Of course not," Sherlock said as he unbuckled his knapsack and pulled out a silk cloth and a thick linen towel. "We just broke into somebody's house. Besides, arrests are boring."

"So what then?" John asked.

"We're going to steal it back, of course," Sherlock said with a self satisfied smirk.

He draped the cloth over the book and then picked it up, deftly spinning it in his hands to fold the soft material over it entirely. John could only grin and shake his head as Sherlock wrapped the plush towel over the whole bundle before slipping it carefully into the rucksack.

"Of course…. Of course we are," John said. "Did you know that you are a little bit insane?"  
>Sherlock looked up at him as his nimble fingers buckled the book inside the backpack. He smirked once more.<p>

"Might I point out that you are also standing in a flat we both broke into," Sherlock pointed out, and then eyed him carefully.

"That I am," John giggled. "That I am."

Sherlock took John on the scenic route back to the Euston Station as it was easy to tell that the new Changeling was infatuated with the city. He didn't walk like an awestruck child or anything, quite the contrary in fact. John seemed to be more confident in his movements here than Sherlock had ever seen, shoulders rolled back, steps strong and sure. It was easy to conclude that John could be completely comfortable in the sprawling city, after all, he was striding down the streets of London, relaxed as you please, having just aided Sherlock in stealing a invaluable work of art from a very wealthy man's home. The average person would be fidgeting, casting furtive glances over their shoulders, no matter how sure they were of their clean escape, but then the evidence all seemed to be pointing to the theory that John Watson was far less ordinary then his unassuming exterior and, until recently, absolutely _boring_, normal life would have suggested.

"Jesus," John's voice cut into Sherlock's lightning musings and he glanced back at his companion whose hand was clutched over their stomach. "I'm _starving._"

They'd just robbed a man and John wanted to stop for a late lunch. Sherlock quirked his brow.

"What?" he prompted more details.

John gave him that look that said Sherlock was asking an odd question. He was missing something. He _passionately_ hated missing things_, _however rare the occurrence.

"I haven't had a chance to have a bite to eat all day. You dragged me out to Oxenholme Station before I could get any breakfast; I'm famished," John said.

Ah. Right. Normal people ate constantly. Terribly inconvenient. That was why Sherlock had broken that habit years ago. It had been a while since he'd been around anyone else for long enough to be hampered by regular consumption of food.

"Oh, right," Sherlock said and changed their course to aim them in the direction of an Italian place that he knew of nearby.

It wasn't until John had taken the first bite of his mushroom ravioli that he gave Sherlock another questioning look.

"You aren't going to order anything?" he asked.

"Digestion lessens blood flow to the brain and therefore slows it. I avoid the activity when there are more interesting things to do," he finished.

John paused in his chewing as he absorbed this new information. Then he swallowed and looked back at his plate.

"So that's how you're so skinny," was all he said before scooping up another piece of pasta and sticking it in his mouth.

Sherlock just smirked, and a small huff of air that almost could have been a laugh escaped his nostrils.

After their lunch they continued to wander in the general direction of the train station, in no rush as their train wasn't due to depart until 5:30. Sherlock led them past a number of interesting locations that wouldn't be part of your basic London tour and didn't hesitate to supply John with any knowledge he had on the subject. If Sherlock had been on his own he probably would have just switched their train to an earlier one because breaking into Williams' flat had taken far less time and effort than Sherlock had expected, but currently, Sherlock's eagerness to get this book back and bask in the satisfaction was outweighed by his interest in this opportunity to add to his growing inventory of observations on John.

By five the sun had begun to sink and draw ever closer to the hungry building tops, settinga dim orange glow over the city. John had his hands in his pockets but pulled out his mobile to check the time and then looked up at Sherlock.

"About time to get back, yeah?" he asked a little regretfully.

Sherlock checked his own watch as they passed a pair of poorly dressed teens.

"Mm, time to get back to the Institute," Sherlock agreed and approved of John's lingering look up at the buildings surrounding them—as if to say, _Farwell, but I'll be back. _

Sherlock was not a supporter of sentimentality for the most part, but this was a connection he had to admit he shared.

He steered them down an alley that Sherlock knew would drop them out on the street where the station was located. It was there that Sherlock first heard the footsteps. John didn't seem to be aware of them yet. It seemed, though, that they would be getting a bit more excitement from London before they had to go.

"Oy! Hey! You two!"

Oh, this was going to be positively _enriching, _Sherlock thought sarcastically, as he turned to face the owners of the inarticulate shouts that had been thrown in his and John's direction.

It was the two teenagers they'd passed before entering the alleyway. While their clothes were indeed poorly chosen, they were clean and fairly new. So they were middle class at least, probably sixth formers—with delusions of street credit.

"Institute, did you say?" the taller of the two, the one whose voice had stopped them, said with a sneer.

So they'd heard Sherlock mention an Institute. That's what this was going to be about.

"I… I believe so,"' Sherlock said with a mocking uncertainty and then turned to John, whose shoulders were a rigid line. "Was that what I said, John?"

"I believe you did…" John said without taking his eyes off the aggressive, would-be thugs. "But Sherlock…"

"Told you they were from one of those filthy mutt schools!" the shorter boy snarled. "They're _mongrels._"

There were many colorful names the closed minded and bigoted had for Changelings, many of which Sherlock was sure they would hear before the end of this enlightening conversation.

"Oh, very solid conclusion," Sherlock mocked. "And I take it you are idiots."

"Sherlock," John warned, but Sherlock ignored him.

"You shut the hell up!" the taller one snapped. "I won't be talked down to by a son of a beastfucker."

Vulgar. That particular slur came from the old belief that Changeling's were a product of a woman lying with an animal. The belief was long discarded but it left some lovely little remnants.

"Well, I wish I didn't have to talk to the son of dullards, if your intelligence is anything to go by, but then I guess we'll both have to accommodate the disappointment," Sherlock said scathingly.

Then something changed. He'd been wrong—he'd misjudged something. He'd deduced these teens were loud, bigoted, hateful, but not _dangerous. _But now there was—

"_Sherlock,_" John's voice cut in a half second after Sherlock finished his insult.

Finally Sherlock looked at his schoolmate. John had somehow realized before him. In John's eyes saw what he did, but it wasn't fear there that tipped Sherlock off. It was an acute focus, and an absolute and solid calm settled over his features. His gaze was laser trained on the glinting, steel object in the shorter boy's hand that had caused the complete shift in the atmosphere. Then, unfortunately, Sherlock's observation was cut short as he looked away, for John had shouted for a clear reason.

Sherlock hadn't stood still during his ill-conceived mocking of the Normals, so now he was a few steps in front of John and a few steps closer to the, now armed, teenagers and it was obvious who their target was. Adrenaline pumped through his veins and he knew his chances against two attackers, one armed, were bleak, but his odds went up dramatically when a compact figure moved past him at high speed. John.

It was all the distraction they needed. Sherlock felt another rush of chemicals flood his system, paired with an odd flutter in his chest that he couldn't name when John collided with the young man with a tiny spark of death in his inept fist. John was faster than that spark, though, and his hands closed around arms and clothes; a knife arced through the air. The unrecognizable tremble was replaced by a swoop of elation and Sherlock dodged a wide punch towards his gut by the bigger boy.

The sounds of scuffling reached his ears and he deduced that John was faring well against his opponent, and truly so was Sherlock, until he got cocky and risked another look to see how John was handling. He wanted to see if that sure, set clarity was still present. And it was, as was so much more. There was now a fierce euphoric current rushing just under the new Changeling's skin.

Half a smile reached Sherlock's face before he paid dearly for his own lack of focus. Another foot had woven between his two and there were harsh hands in his jacket and then he was approaching the ground very quickly. He threw out his hands and his left hit the pavement, hard, sending shooting streams of pain up through his arm.

"Aaah!" Sherlock gasped involuntarily.

Sherlock didn't miss the way John's head snapped around, eyes wide, when he'd cried out. Sherlock returned his focus to his own attacker as he cradled his ruined arm to his chest. There was a smile on his mean face. So he was going to gloat, was he? Sherlock smirked and it was true that usually he knew lots of things others didn't, but currently, he found this certain piece of knowledge particularly amusing.

In the seconds the tall boy wasted gloating, there was the solid smack of a fist against flesh and then there was the sound of someone falling to the ground. Before the superior boy could react, a sure hand gripped his shoulder and spun him around roughly, so he was already off balance when knuckles collided explosively with his cheek. Another body fell to the ground and Sherlock looked up at John Watson, who was breathing heavily above him.

"All right?" John huffed, in the short pause in the chaos.

Sherlock was about to respond when a bottle smashed a few meters away from them, sending broken glass flying.

"Oy! You punks better get out of here!" a slurring voice shouted from an open window. "I'll call the police!"

John and Sherlock's attackers were stirring and jarred into action by the crash. Sherlock saw the shorter one's head snap up towards the sound and swear. So that one at least had priorities. By the time the second bottle hit the ground, everyone was scrambling. John grabbed Sherlock's good hand and pulled him to his feet. There was a moment of intensity, and time slowed as the two opposing groups passed by each other, heading in opposite directions.

"Beastfuckers," the taller one spat, and Sherlock snarled but kept moving.

Sherlock dutifully followed John down the alleyway. They stopped running as soon as they got to the main road and then they leaned up against the building, gasping for breath. Sherlock felt his heart thudding against his ribs and the pain in his wrist had been reduced to an almost pleasant sort of ache by the adrenaline coursing through his body.

Sherlock glanced sideways towards his companion, who was in quite the same state as he was. His hair was mussed, sticking up on one side, and his face was flushed. His chest rose and fell vigorously. His eyes were clear and bright. He looked absolutely and completely _alive. _

John noticed Sherlock's scrutiny and looked over. There was a second where they held each other's gaze and then, like last grains of sand falling in an hour glass, they burst out laughing. John leaned forward, unable to catch his breath but smiling wide. Sherlock let his head fall back against the bricks and felt himself laugh wholeheartedly for the first time in a very long time, and the sun continued to sink into the arms of London.


	5. Relations

****Author's Notes:**This will be a full length AU fic and will be posted up here as I finish and my lovely, amazing beta, **kathecello, **cleans them up! This is currently very low teen but the ratings will go up further along. Warnings for the whole story: general adult themes, swearing, mentions of child abuse, violence and graphic sex. **

**Quite pleased with this chapter and the next chapter should be up soon! I eat and breathe reviews so I'd love to hear from all of you!**

_**How to Build a Heart out of Ashes: **__Relations_

_by Teumessian_

"It's not broken, John. It's just sprained," Sherlock complained as John made another attempt to get him to allow him to look at it.

"Look, even if it's just sprained it still needs to be looked at and taken care of," John said. "We need to stop and get a bandage and some ice. If you keep up like this you won't be able to shift for days. You'll have to take shift suppressors and I've heard they're rather unpleasant."

Even as a new Changeling, John was aware of how injuries affected Changelings. Their need to shift often was troublesome when it came to serious injuries. Tissue damage and minor wounds were usually unaffected by a shift and the same treatment could be applied in either form. However more serious injuries, broken bones and surgeries could be complicated by shifting between forms. In the past, Changelings would have to remain in their shifted form until the injuries were healed, sometimes for weeks or months. In the present day, however, modern medicine had overcome this problem and drugs that suppressed the shift urge could be taken after surgeries or if a Changeling experienced a severe bone break. They had side effects, though, and no Changeling enjoyed spending so much time stuck in human form.

Not for the first time, John realized that Sherlock was infuriatingly stubborn, but at John's reminder of the possible consequences of not treating a sprain he slowed and glanced back, irritated.

"We'll miss the train," Sherlock said.

"No we won't," John said, determined. "It won't take but a minute."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed skeptically.

"Fine," he finally said.

Even though he'd agreed and let John run into a Tesco's near the station and buy first aid supplies, he wouldn't let John even look at his wrist until they were both comfortably seated on a moving, high-speed train. He tried to make Sherlock let him bind it but he kept dodging John's hands. Because of this John had to endure a painful few moments of watching Sherlock struggle with an ace bandage before he snapped with a heavy sigh.

"Give it here," John said as he broke the seal in the two instant ice packs he'd procured. "Put your wrist between these for a few minutes while I sort out the mess you've made. And for the love of Christ stop _moving _it."

Sherlock finally responded to the commanding tone with light surprise.

"You're first aid trained," Sherlock stated as he handed over the lightly tacky, tangled mass that was once a neatly rolled bandage.

He took the ice packs and Sherlock set one on his thigh, laid his wrist across it and pressed the other over it, effectively encasing it in the soothing cold.

"Yeah, I am. Learned in Scouts," John said, remembering the smell of mountain air though his hazy human nose.

John began to untangle the wrappings and ignored Sherlock's new wave of scrutiny.

"Most people forget any first aid training they learn almost immediately," Sherlock said.

John had gotten most of the kinks out of the bandage and glanced up at the boy who was sitting in the seat across from him.

"Well, I never did. I like it. I'm good at it," John said, somehow not coming off arrogantly. "My troop used to call me Dr. Watson, always patching them up. Here, let me see your wrist…"

John smiled fondly at the memories as he reached out to take Sherlock's wrist. The Changeling flinched away in surprise but when John stayed steady he relented, offering his wrist forward hesitantly. It was now chilled, and John held it with a surprisingly warm and gentle grip for hands that had very recently knocked the bloody daylights out of a couple of blokes.

"Dr. Watson…" Sherlock repeated as practiced hands began to firmly but delicately wrap the bandage around his inflamed wrist, unrolling the strip as he went.

"Mhmm," John murmured as he wrapped. "Hopefully it'll be more than a nickname someday."

John had faded out of the present, floating through both the past and future, and with his eyes focused on his task he didn't see the contemplating gaze looking over him. There was a pause and then Sherlock turned and watched the horizon. John just smiled contentedly and continued to bind Sherlock's sprained wrist.

. . .

The next day a very old book was found where it used to sit in the Baker Institute library. With it, there was a note from one Canton Williams apologizing for being a conniving wanker and taking such a nice book—in those exact words. When the gossip got back to John he had nearly spit his tea out onto the table. Sherlock had more of a sense of humour than John gave him credit for.

From that day forward Sherlock was no longer a lone shadow on campus. Now he was frequently accompanied by someone else, and that someone was known by the name John Watson. John was often awoken by demanding texts or knocks on his door, and though it was often with complaints and scowls, he somehow always found himself complying the strange Changeling's requests.

This was expertly highlighted one night a few days after the London Heist, as he secretly called it in his mind, while John was hunched over his chemistry book. He was about to give up and go to bed as the bright desk lamp was starting to exhaust his eyes, when he heard the buzz of his mobile. He looked away from a passage on precipitation reactions, and unlocked his mobile. The words on the screen made him sigh.

**Come to 631A-SH**

He should have gone to bed; he had rugby practice tomorrow, but even as he was thinking this he found himself rising from his chair and readjusting his jumper.

It didn't take long to find 631A, as it was on his floor, but as John passed the second to last door on the right, 629A, Mike's room, he began to smile. A few pieces of a puzzle fell into place. A comment from his first day at the Institute floated back to him.

_Hope you have better luck with your next door neighbors than I have._

It was the first thing Mike ever said to him. He'd been complaining about a very specific next door neighbor.

_Plays that violin at all hours of the night he does, and where do those explosions keep coming from…?_

By the time his knuckles rapped on the door of 631A, John's suspicions had progressed to near certainty.

"Come in," a low voice drawled from within.

John turned the knob and opened the door. The room within obviously belonged to his genius friend. It was larger than any of the rooms John had seen in the dorms so far. It was unsurprising, though. John knew that students were allowed to switch rooms between the school years, so the older and longest Changed students often occupied the best rooms. Since Sherlock had been at the Institute since the age of five, it stood to reason he would have obtained such a large space. He'd also probably been in this room a while, as the space had been overrun by the Changeling.

There was a desk and a wardrobe, just like John's, and while the small area around the wardrobe was meticulous, it was the only area that could in any way shape or form be called tidy. There were books strewn everywhere, some open, some stacked in apparently random piles. There was a microscope on the desk and a large number of test tubes and petri dishes accompanied it. The desk beneath had seen better days. It was burned, scratched, and blackened by what appeared to be chemical burns. There was a pocket knife stabbed through a letter into the pockmarked wood beside a stack of files, and a mini fridge under the desk that John rather strongly suspected didn't contain anything remotely edible.

The walls weren't spared from the clutter either. One wall was covered in photographs, articles and string. One had various foliage pinned to it with accompanying post-it notes documenting something John couldn't decipher. Above the desk there was a small bird pinned up by its wings and John would have thought this the most morbid thing in the room if not for what appeared to be a _human _skull on the bedside table.

The room's occupant currently lay stretched out on a deep, navy blue duvet, head propped up on an off-white pillow. One hand lay on his chest and the other, still wrapped to protect his sprained wrist, lay across his stomach. John would have thought him to be asleep if he hadn't just been called in by him.

The bed wasn't spared the clutter. There were a few books, a petri dish, and most notably a beautiful, polished violin, accompanied by a smooth bow, and a little block of rosin.

"You are the neighbor that drives poor Mike up the wall, aren't you?" John said, barely holding back laughter.

"Playing the violin helps me think," was all Sherlock said, utterly unapologetic.

John just shook his head and closed the door behind him.

"So, why did you call me over?" John asked. "It's late."

"Would you pass me that file from the top of the stack on the desk," Sherlock said, one hand lifting up to receive the file.

Something throbbed dangerously in John's tired mind as he processed the request.

""You… called me over… to hand you a file—that was on your desk," John repeated it back slowly, making sure he wasn't confused.

Sherlock opened one eye at John's obviously irritated tone.

"I think I've figured out how Abigail James was poisoned. I need the file to make sure," Sherlock defended.

John was still tied up in the fact that he'd come all the way down the hall for this.

"The file that's on your desk… that you called me down to get at a quarter to one to fetch for you, from your desk that is not two meters from your bed, where you are currently," John clarified once more.

Now both of Sherlock's frustrated eyes were watching John.

"Yes…" he said, obviously not seeing a problem. "The Scotland Yard case file on Abigail James."

John closed his eyes and tried to formulate a sentence that didn't consist primarily of words his mother wouldn't smack him for saying.

"I—you—Who is Abigail James?" was the question that finally made it out of his mouth.

Now, John was berating himself. That was hardly discouraging this sort of behavior, but John's curiosity always got the best of him.

"Ms. James is a girl who was murdered 15 years ago. I believe I've figured out how. I could be sure if you would just hand me her file."

This tone of voice would have had you believe that John was the one who was being unreasonable. He opened his mouth to spit an acidic response at the entitled boy but his jaw snapped shut and he stalked over to the desk and picked up the top file, labeled Abigail James, and then resisted the urge to chuck it at Sherlock. When it made it to his hands, he flipped it open and scanned for a few seconds before a satisfied smirk curved his pink lips.

"Brilliant…" he murmured.

He closed the file and grabbed his phone, thumbs tapping madly on the touch screen, eyes bright and focused. John realized he was no longer necessary and sighed tiredly, turning towards the door. He made it to close his hand around the cool doorknob before a voice stopped him.

"Don't you want to hear how I figured it out?"

John couldn't help the small smile that tugged the corners of his lips up at the tone in the brilliant Changeling's voice, confusion mixed with a dash of disappointment. John let go of the doorknob and resigned himself to getting very little sleep that night.

The new shift in the social expectations of the Baker Institute did not go unnoticed. Surprised double takes often followed the pair through the corridors or past the table where they sat for breakfast—John eating and Sherlock sipping a cup of tea. Usually the looks were merely curious or bewildered but sometimes they were less than friendly.

"You should really stay away from Sherlock Holmes," a voce stopped John one evening as he rose from a table of friends and acquaintances when Sherlock entered the dining hall.

The voice belonged to Sally Donovan, a fellow member of the Campus Guard with Greg. Anderson also joined them today. John didn't particularly like either of them, but they were friends of Greg's so he always remained cordial.

"Why do you say that?" John said, pleased when his voice came out clear of barbs.

"He's a freak," Sally said, as if it was obvious. "Everybody knows that."

"There's just something off about him," Anderson added before John could respond. "There's something _wrong _with him."

An image of deep, shiny black scars flashed though John's mind and a surge of anger welled up in his gut.

"He won't stay with you," Sally said.

"Psychopaths don't have friends," Anderson added.

With that John decided they weren't even worth his anger. The rest of John's friends had become aware of the exchange and shifted awkwardly. Greg had frozen with a fork full of past half way to his open mouth.

"You know, I'll take my chances," was all john said before turning and striding purposefully across the hall to meet up with Sherlock.

"Something wrong?" Sherlock asked, noticing John's tension when he came close.

At that his anger dissipated and he didn't have to try hard to smile up at the dark haired student.

"It's nothing," John said.

. . .

John often went into the woods with Sherlock, their ease of communication making him an ideal companion, however, every once in a while John enjoyed going into the woods with Greg or even all alone, just so he could run free, without having to stop for the less enduring feline.

Normally, John would run at a quick but easy lope until the restlessness drained out of him, but this night the itch for speed crawled all over his fur. The night was unusually clear and John sprinted through the trees, paws throwing up clots of dirt and grass as his nails dug for purchase. Only when his overlarge lungs began to burn and his swollen tongue lolled out of his mouth to try and cool his overheated blood did he slow and let his heartbeat stop pounding so hard against his ribs.

John sniffed the night air to make sure he was heading back in the general direction of the school, as he had run further than he normally did and wasn't particularly familiar with this part of Baker Forest. It was through this nasal survey that John first became aware that he wasn't alone under the trees.

John froze as the underbrush rustled ahead of him. Just in sight in the gloom, a small, lithe form slithered into view and then propped itself up on short hinds legs ahead of him. It was glossy and sleek. Sharp, slanted eyes glinted in the moonlight—a mink.

_Calm. _**Beneath your paws is a viper. It would be in your best interest if you would elect not to move, as one drop of his venom will kill you stone dead. **_Amusement._

It was the voice of a woman, slow and sultry, and absolutely clear. That was the practiced shift-speech of a fully mature Changeling. Then John processed the meaning of the words. He was being threatened—and there was something in the way the mink said the words so smoothly, almost pleasant, as if she were offering him a cup of tea, that made John more than sure she wasn't lying.

She wasn't going to force John to just take her word for it, however. The leaves below John rustled and he didn't dare look down when he felt a smooth strip of body slither up his hind leg and over his back until it coiled around his neck like a second marker. He didn't move but it didn't stop him from trying to question his captor.

_Irate. Confusion. _

If his question got through it was for the most part ignored. The mink dropped onto all fours.

**You're to follow.**

Left with no other viable options, John padded after the slinking creature as she turned and led him into the forest. There was just silence for a good while as they passed under hovering moon. Unable to stay quiet in the tense situation, John attempted to question the unfamiliar Changeling again.

_Smooth. Sleek. _**Name? **_Shiny._

The mink gave him a strange look.

**My name?**

She interpreted the question correctly.

_Amusement_…**Anthea.**

She said it with an odd undertone, almost like she was telling a joke, and with an easy clarity, John realized she was probably lying to him. He didn't bother trying to get her to give him any more information.

They reached the edge of a small but secluded clearing surrounded by brambles. There was a clear opening between the trees and the mink, who called herself Anthea, veered off to the side of it and perched on a stump where she proceeded to begin grooming herself. When John paused she looked up at him, waiting. When he still didn't move he heard her voice in his mind.

_Deprecation. _**Well… go on then.**

Right then. John felt small under her dismissive attitude. As he strode into the clearing he felt the viper slip from his neck and he relaxed, releasing some tension he didn't realized he'd been fostering.

John slowed to a stop when he reached the center of the clearing, absolutely clueless as to what to expect now. This did not fall into things John was conditioned to handle on your average night. Then a shape moved in the shadows. It was familiar and for a second John thought it was Sherlock, but as it moved out into the moonlight John could see the colors were all wrong. The shapes were off too. The head was heavier, the shoulders larger, and while Sherlock moved with a slinking arrogance, this creature moved with an all consuming, aristocratic power.

It was a jaguar, John finally realized as he noticed the rosettes blooming on the golden pelt. The jaguar stopped and sat a few meters away, head held high and calculating.

**Please sit.**

A cool, commanding tone that John instinctively rebelled against met his mind. He remained standing.

**Alright then,** the voice continued, seeming to accept that John had no intention of sitting. **I chose to meet with you today as it has come to my attention that you have been spending a certain amount of time with Sherlock Holmes.**

Sherlock? John thought. This was about Sherlock? Of course it was. This sort of insanity could only concern _him. _Obviously aware that John didn't possess the skill to respond verbally, the jaguar continued.

**As I'm sure you know, Sherlock isn't like most people you will meet in your lifetime and because of this I personally foster certain concerns about him.**

He certainly wasn't, but why did this have anything to do with this clear-spoken Changeling?

_Irritation. Arrogance. _**Who?**_ Feline. Confusion._

Who are you? John had tried to ask.

**If you ask Sherlock, he would tell you that I am his archenemy. Truthfully I am merely a worried party.**

Archenemy? Really? Normal people didn't have archenemies. What had John gotten himself into this time?

**Because of this, and you recent… closeness, with Sherlock Holmes, I would be most grateful if you could… report to me on his statuses. You would be well compensated for your troubles.**

Was this man, Changeling, bribing him to _spy _on Sherlock? A rebellious fury flushed through John's veins and he felt his hackles rise aggressively.

_Shock! Indignation! Defiance!_

The jaguar's eyes widened lightly at the strength of John's response. While John was observing this, he felt the lightest, familiar flutter against his mind.

**Don't think I don't understand why you follow Sherlock Holmes. I can see it in the way you stand now. You are utterly at my mercy, you could die now, before you come of age, and you are not stupid. You know this, and yet, you not only show no fear, but you feel not—here in the face of danger. You will be a man of war, it's there in your eyes. The danger, you love it, don't you, John Watson?**

As interesting or concerning the Changeling's assessment of him now John was distracted. There was another crackle, sparking faintly against his conscious.

_**Sherlock!**_

He tried to call quietly, hide it from the jaguar, but the creature could at least tell he'd called out.

**There's no point. Your ability in the realm of shift-speech is limited at best. Nobody is close enough to hear you. Now back to point, you may love the danger, the adventure, but there are things you don't know about Sherlock. There are things you **_**should **_**know. They shape him. Things that he will not even accept in himself…**

Even as John became much more acutely aware of the strange Changeling's words a fizzle of pointed thought brushed against him. Despite the jaguar's assurance someone had heard him. Even so, John couldn't help but pay mind to the turn the conversation had taken.

**There are dark parts of Sherlock, John. You may be able to handle the danger, the rush, but can you handle Sherlock himself? If you can't then you must—**

The electricity was bouncing so forcefully against his brain now that John could barely focus. His gaze had wandered to the ground.

**The scars, John, do you know—**

John's ears pricked forward in attention but the aristocratic Changeling never got a chance to finish as a splitting yowl cut the night.

_**MYCROFT!**_

The jaguar's head snapped around in the direction of the howl, out into the black forest, eyes wide. There wasn't a two second pause before a panther flew like an arrow over the brambles and into the clearing. A heavy body touched down to the ground with a soft thud. The second he landed, he was hissing and spitting madly. John had never seen him react to anything so strongly before—letting the beast in him free. All of his fur rose up, making him look twice as large as he truly was, his tail lashed and his bared fangs glinted in the moonlight.

**Sherlock! What the hell is going on?** John asked quickly.

**Sherlock!** the jaguar said in surprise.

Sherlock glanced back at John, giving him a once over.

**Sherlock, there was this mink called Anthea and this viper—they could be here now. You have to be careful!**

The familiar voice resonated in his mind.

**It's fine, John. Don't worry.**

The shocked jaguar was looking from Sherlock to John and bag again. Golden eyes were wide and analyzing.

**How did you find us? I made sure it was too far for you to track and **_**far **_**beyond your playmate's shift-speaking abilities. How could you…**

Sherlock was stiff and frozen, eyes fierce and glaring at the jaguar. John swiveled his furry head back towards his friend.

**Sherlock, would you kindly tell me what the hell—**

_**Shhh!**_

The voice in his mind was accompanied by an involuntary glance in his direction. John head jerked back in surprise. Did Sherlock seriously just _shush _him? After all he'd gotten him into! John was preparing a biting response when he noticed the jaguar's jaw had dropped slightly.

**Ohhh…**

The smooth voice whispered in his mind. Sherlock's head whipped back in the direction of the Changeling he'd called Mycroft. He looked like an elastic band stretched to just before its snapping point—tight as a wire.

**So that's how you found him. You **_**could **_**hear him. You have an **_**open bond…**_

Sherlock just snarled in response and John was absolutely lost. Mycroft only stood and continued.

**Sherlock, if this is true, don't you see how important this could be? Don't you know what that means? You can't just erase it, Sherlock. It must—**

A snarling, hissing yowl cut the jaguar off. Sherlock's tail lashed madly and John didn't miss the way his claws extended into the earth.

**That's none of your **_**business! **_**Leave **_**now**_**!**

The jaguar's tail lashed once, giving away his agitation.

**Sherlock, you know it's quite the contrary. Stop acting so childishly. You—**

Then Sherlock roared. John both head and felt it in his bones. Then the great beast went utterly still and John swore he could feel ice crystallizing on the borders of his consciousness.

_**Now.**_the voice commanded.

Mycroft's eyes narrowed and there was tense silence for a moment.

**As you wish…**

The cool voice finally conceded, and then without another word he turned and slid back into the shadows.

There was absolutely no movement for a long while John watched Sherlock watch the retreating Changeling disappear into the darkness. Finally John padded over to stand beside his frozen friend. He still hadn't moved but some of his muscles were beginning to relax and John could feel his mind thawing.

**He said he was your archenemy…**

John said this quietly with some skepticism and Sherlock's whiskers twitched in amusement and a little more tension drained out of them both. Sherlock huffed, a sound John recognized as a scoff, and turned in the opposite direction from where the jaguar had stalked off, passing John in the process. John turned to follow.

**He would say that…** Sherlock said as they passed the brambles.

John glanced over to the stump where the mink who was certainly not named Anthea had stopped to groom herself, but now there was nobody around.

**Well then, who is he **_**actually**_**?**

Without so much as a pause for dramatic effect, Sherlock stated quiet clearly:

**He's my brother.**

In shock, John tripped over a fallen branch and narrowly avoided plowing his muzzle into the ground.

**He's your **_**what!**_

John nearly shouted.

He had to give them some credit, though. The Holmes bothers certainly knew how to make an impression.


	6. Ignition

_******Author's Notes:**This will be a full length AU fic and will be posted up here as I finish and my lovely, amazing beta, **kathecello, **cleans them up! Warnings for the whole story: general adult themes, swearing, mentions of child abuse, violence and graphic sex. Rating has gone up.  
><strong>**_

_****SO SORRY EVERYONE! Some of you may have recieved a few notifications about this chapter being posted only to find it unavailable. First FF destroyed the formatting so I was going to go through and manually fix it but then Doc Manager was down completely! So sorry for the trouble or annoyance! I hope you enjoy! As always I hope to hear from you!****_

_**How to Build a Heart out of Ashes: **__Ignition_

_by: Teumessian_

In the aftermath of meeting Mycroft Holmes, John had tried to question Sherlock about what had happened that night in the forest—about the words that had caught his attention, the parts that had lightly concerned even the level headed John, but all Sherlock would say was that his brother was just ridiculously meddlesome—one had to be by nature if they ran the British government. John had been so distracted by getting Sherlock to explain that little comment that the younger Holmes brother effectively evaded John's real questions for another day.

When it got right down to it, John didn't try as hard as he could, or probably _should_, have considering the apparent gravity of Mycroft's 'warnings'. There were any number of reasons that could effectively explain this lapse in effort but John had a sneaking suspicion that it was truthfully due to the simple fact that John _liked_and trusted Sherlock and instinctively fostered less than pleasant feelings towards his elder brother—a fact that Sherlock himself delighted in. Whatever it was, the events and the questions raised that night quickly fell into their list of things that were not to be discussed. John would have to bide his time in this game.

Even with this hiccough, life began to pass more quickly at the Baker Institute. John no longer followed everything anyone told him with a clarifying question that gave away his inexperience in the world of Changelings. He no longer got lost while navigating the corridors of Baker Hall. A few of his socks had disappeared under his bed and a pen or two had slipped behind his desk. As much as any place had ever been, the Baker Institute had become his home.

People also stopped turning their heads when Sherlock entered a room less than alone. Nobody was surprised to see John Watson at Sherlock's side, even more, it was expected. Because of this, John was probably the only one truly surprised when Sherlock showed up at one of his rugby matches for the first time.

He'd been standing reviewing his opponents, aware of his teammates' attention on him. This was his play, his call, and it was brilliant, but then John's voice had cut out half way through shouting the direction for a play when he say a familiar, dark haired shape on the sidelines wearing that long hemmed coat that Sherlock loved to wear on the weekends. His blue scarf was tied around his neck. It was too far away to be sure, but John swore he made eye contact as Sherlock stared at him levelly.

"Watson!" John heard Bill shout to get his attention.

John's attention whipped back to his teammates and their blue shirted opponents from the Alabaster Institute. While John didn't really have any focus to spare on his friend, he couldn't help but cast a few sidelong glances towards the edge of the pitch between plays.

After that day it was not an uncommon sight to see Sherlock in the spectators seats at rugby matches. He most definitely didn't come to all of them, and he often seemed to get bored in the middle and leave, but still, John developed a habit of scanning the stands for a blue scarf before each match.

When John asked why he came to matches Sherlock simply stated that he found the combination of physical trials and strategy coming together to form a pseudo-war experience stimulating.

"Basically… you like rugby?" John had asked, having become adept at translating Sherlockian into what he called normal-people-speak.

"I like rugby," Sherlock confirmed, dolling out one of his rare true smiles that had become much more common in the past months. John could only laugh in response at the simple admission.

. . .

The first word of the Wandering of Lucy Heart reached Sherlock in the stands of the Baker Institute's rugby pitch, as he sat in the middle of a crowd to watch one of John's rugby matches. Surprisingly enough, Sherlock hadn't lied to John when he said he liked rugby. He enjoyed the contest of strength juxtaposed to the surprisingly complex strategies employed by the players. What he hadn't told John was that there was another reason he came to the matches. It provided Sherlock with consistent access to studying John's unique response to pressure—that strange steely calm that was hidden under the soft, jumper covered exterior.

Plus, if Sherlock got bored of the game he could just observe the crowd and systematically deduce everything there was to be gleaned from that observation about the individuals. It was a good exercise.

Currently, Sherlock sat on a cold metal bench about halfway up the stands debating whether or not to stay through the second half of the match. It was early but still unusually chilly for a late spring morning. The mist clung to the pitch, so the players on the opposite side were lightly shrouded. Sherlock could still clearly pick out John where he crouched, ready in his black and silver jersey. He couldn't see his eyes from here but Sherlock knew the way they'd be shining clear and fierce. Sherlock could tell his shoulder was bothering him from where he succumbed to a hard tackle near the beginning of the game but he was hiding the weakness well. It was rather impressive. Baker Institute was so far ahead of their opponents that there was little or no chance of them making a comeback.

There were two girls sitting close together for warmth on the bench directly in front on him. He'd easily identified them as Talia Hansen and Sophia Tam when he'd sat down, two first year university students. He'd tuned them out a while ago, but his mind had of course been monitoring without his direction and alerted him when the conversation took a more interesting turn.

"I wonder how Sebastian is doing," Talia said to her friend, curly brown hair bobbing as she turned her head.

Her friend, who wore a red scarf, turned towards her with a look of confusion on her face.

"What?" Sophia asked. "What happened to Sebastian?"

Talia raised her eyebrows in surprise before ducking her head and speaking low. Sherlock was lucky he was right behind them or he may have missed the next words. He watched John push his full body weight into a scrum but his true focus was to the conversation passing between the girls in front of him.

"Didn't you hear?" she whispered. "Lucy Heart got the fever a few days back and hasn't been seen since yesterday. Sebastian was seeing her."

Sherlock took half a second to scroll through his memory to pick out everything he knew about the name Lucy Heart. She was a first year university student as well. She was fairly popular, average intelligence, and had a snow leopard shift if he remembered correctly—which of course he did.

Then Sherlock moved on to the topic of the statement. There had been a Wandering? 'The Fever' only ever meant that fever, the Wander Fever. It wasn't uncommon. Usually happened once or twice a year. Sherlock thought it was pointless to discuss the subject. When Wanderers disappeared there was nothing to be done. It was just a fact of Changeling life, and it was supposed to be a good way to go. Life went on.

Sherlock tuned them out again and went back to watching the pitch. He stayed for another two plays before slipping out of the stands and making his exit.

. . .

Sherlock didn't give the Wandering a second thought until forty-eight hours later when he was walking through the corridors of Baker Hall towards the Grand Entryway, John following behind him.

"You know, just because you brought back an invaluable book from the dark ages doesn't mean you have the right to destroy any other book from the library," John's voice admonished from behind him.

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"I'm not destroying them, John. I just need to check the effects that sulphuric acid has on the paper used by different printing companies," Sherlock corrected him.

John had his hands stuffed in the pockets of his uniform trousers, pushing back his jacket. Sherlock heard his schoolmate giggle.

"That sounds suspiciously like it might destroy them," John pointed out.

"In the name of science!" Sherlock defended as they turned into the Grand Entry, passing the start of the Wanderer's Wall.

All the Institutes in Great Britain had a wall like this one. It was a wall meant to remember and honor the 'truest' of Changelings—those who Wandered. After the school was sure of the Wandering, a picture of the student in human and shifted form, as well as a plaque was put up in their honor, and the Institute hung their respective markers beneath it to symbolize their shedding of restraints and taking of freedom. It was a rather silly tradition in Sherlock's opinion. He didn't see the point.

"Yes, you are _destroying_books in the name of science," John's quip bringing his focus back to the present.

Sherlock shot a glare over his shoulder.

"Well turn me in then," Sherlock bated.

John didn't take it and just laughed, holding his hands up.

"I'll have nothing to do with it," John said. "If the school really kicks you out this time it'll be nobody's fault but your own. Don't expect me to cover for you."

It was strange, though. Despite John's words, Sherlock didn't hold a single doubt that if it came to such a situation, his companion would defend him without hesitation. He wondered when that had happened. When had he come to depend on another human being? He certainly hadn't meant to do that. Such things made Sherlock vulnerable, but somehow, in a relatively short amount of time, John Watson had simply sidestepped the defenses Sherlock had spent nearly his whole life creating, seemingly without a single pointed effort to do so. Yet here Sherlock was with an associate, someone who listened to his words and had heard his mind. He found himself desiring the Changeling's company, craving his praise and effortlessly tolerating his stupidity—that might sound like an insult to an outsider but considering Sherlock's less than savory views on the rest of the population, it was a winning endorsement. However, it was troubling. He should probably do something about it.

Mycroft's intervention had been a reality check for Sherlock. That night he lay pensively in bed and convinced himself that he should set a few boundaries for himself when it came to John Watson. It was only a matter of time until he slipped in a way he couldn't cover and he couldn't take back. But the next day John had made him tea and his pride told him he could handle it. He would be absolutely fine. Plus, Sherlock had found that his deductive abilities were greatly enhanced when he spoke aloud and even more when those words were responded to. Sherlock had come to the solid conclusion that the cost benefit balance was sound.

The two sixth formers passed Mr. Thatcher as he added a new member to the Wanderer's Wall. Sherlock was about to continue his banter with John when something flashed like a billboard in his mind, as things that others missed so often did. It was like a beacon. Something was off. What was it?

"Oh!" Sherlock said as it hit him like a mallet on a gong.

John dodged as Sherlock spun in place.

"Christ! Watch it, Sherlock," John chastised. "What is it?"

Sherlock merely ignored him and wove around him to approach Mr. Thatcher.

"This is Lucy Heart's memorial, yes?" Sherlock asked immediately, to draw the man's attention.

He recognized the smiling blonde as well as her exotic shift before Mr. Thatcher could have answered but let him do so anyway.

"Well, yes, why?" he asked.

John had followed him over and now watched with a confused set to his mouth. Why did everyone miss _everything_?

"Is that her marker?" Sherlock asked, ignoring Mr. Thatcher's question.

Sherlock nodded towards the hook he'd just hung a blue leather collar on. Mr. Thatcher's brow furrowed.

"Um… yes," he said.

Sherlock looked it over once more to be sure before responding. _Stupid!_

"No, it's not. That marker is brand new. It's never been worn before," Sherlock spat.

Mr. Thatcher looked taken aback and glanced at the marker and then back at Sherlock.

"Oh, well, yes. It's not the same one she had before. We couldn't find her marker with her things," he explained.

Odd. When Wanderers go to make their final shift they usually bring their markers to the changing booth out of habit. It was said that they themselves don't even realized they will never shift back again until their final moments. So usually their markers are left with their shed clothing. If they were like Sherlock and neglected to wear any marker it was recovered from their dorms and then hung.

"You didn't find it in her dorm?" Sherlock asked as he didn't know if Lucy Heart had followed the rules or not.

Mr. Thatcher just looked more confused, as did John. Sherlock's impatience grew.

"Umm… no. they looked all through her room when they cleared it and it wasn't anywhere. We think she must have wandered with it. Doesn't really matter now, though, does it? She's free," Mr. Thatcher said solemnly, repeating a sentiment commonly voiced by older Changelings—_freedom_.

Sherlock thought it was all a rather silly and a pathetic defense mechanism to deal with the loss. It was idealised until it became a positive thing, succumbing to the beast inside, or whatever it was that caused a Changeling to Wander.

Having finished his duties and paying his respects, Mr. Thatcher excused himself, leaving Sherlock staring intensely at the memorial of Lucy Heart. After a moment of silence John finally spoke up.

"Sherlock, what's wrong?" he asked, taking a step closer.

Sherlock's gaze didn't waver.

"There's something off about this," he said. "Wanderer's never shift with their markers."

John shrugged.

"Maybe she just didn't wear one, like you, and lost it or something," John supplied, trying—and failing—to be helpful.

"No… that's not it," Sherlock said, breathing certainty. "There's something else. I don't know what it is yet but I'm going to find out."

John's eyebrows rose.

"What do you mean?"

Finally, Sherlock's lips curved into a slow smile as he looked into the frozen eyes of Lucy Heart, excitement prickling in his veins.  
>"John, I believe this could be something far more interesting than a simple Wandering."<p>

. . .

Unfortunately, not a single member of the faculty had agreed with Sherlock's assessment of the situation. And after a week of watching Sherlock shout at people, from resident directors to professors to councilors, and then awkwardly apologizing for Sherlock's constant disrespect, which they took surprisingly well due to their experience with the Changeling, John was exhausted and Sherlock was buried deep in an absolute sulk-fest. None of the faculty thought the discrepancy was anything to be concerned about and instructed Sherlock to let it go—something he resisted vehemently.

The term was nearing an end and John had already turned in most of his coursework. Because of this, John was feeling particularly relaxed on a Friday evening as he read over a random medical text he'd found shoved into a corner of Sherlock's room. For his part, Sherlock glowered in silence after he'd been sent away by the primary school art teacher. John had no idea why he'd bothered to go to her, or what Mrs. Avery would have done if she _had_agreed with him but all he knew was that a good number of the primary students were now afraid of the 'mad Sherlock Holmes.' He was getting desperate, John guessed.

John wasn't sure what he believed but he just knew that Sherlock knew more on the subject than he did so, in the interest of diplomacy, had kept his personal thoughts on the subject quiet. He did feel genuinely bad for the young genius as he grew ever more frustrated with each dismissal.

John turned to a page on arrhythmias and glanced up as Sherlock bolted upright on his bed, snatching his violin from the foot of his bed. John sighed. This didn't bode well.

Sherlock was a very talented musician, which was not under contest, but how he chose to play was completely dependent upon his mood. And with the dark mood that currently possessed him, this was not going to pretty.

John was not disappointed- well, perhaps his ears were, but that was neither here nor there. He cringed as the first screeching notes blasted into the room. He tried to tune it out and continue to read, but this proved difficult as the raucous sounds pounded down his ear canals and bounced harshly against his ear drums.

John gave up entirely as Sherlock fired off into some bastardisation of a rapid number, notes flying off the strings in every which way, unharmonious and unpredictable.

This went on for three whole minutes before Sherlock paused, bow snapping away from the strings.

John who had been watching since he lost focus, smiled tightly, trying to bite back his irritation.

"Feel any better?" he asked.

Sherlock didn't even turn around.

"No," he spat and promptly threw himself back onto the bed.

John rolled his eyes. He stood and stretched.

"Come on, it's about time for dinner and you haven't eaten anything today… or yesterday, for that matter," John said.

For a moment John thought he was going to be ignored entirely, but with a frustrated scowl, Sherlock finally rolled over and plucked his school jacket off the floor.

"Fine."

"Great," John said with a smile.

Sherlock stalked after him.

"_Fantastic_," he said acerbically.

Little did either Changeling know that the mystery of Lucy Heart's Wandering was about to plummet to near meaninglessness on their list of priorities.

. . .

John had been very lucky when it came to slip-shifting, the tendency for new Changelings to accidentally shift from human form. In young Changelings there was usually no provocation at all, though in lightly more experienced Changelings, a slip-shift could be brought on by an overly emotional event. When John arrived, Dr. Mortimer had warned him that Changeling's whose first shift was unusually old or young were often found somewhere on the extremes for slip-shifting tendencies. They either were particularly prone to it or exceptionally resilient against it. John thanked his lucky stars that it seemed he had fallen into the latter category.

John had only slip-shifted once since arriving at the Institute and it had been only a few weeks after he arrived, during a rugby practice. This was also a good fortune. He'd burst his uniform to shreds but that was easily replaceable and instead of knocking over any furniture in the vicinity he'd only knocked over a few blokes he'd been planning on knocking over anyway. This was far better than slip-shifting in a classroom.

When John realized what happened he first felt embarrassed, but before almost anyone could react properly, Bill Murray, who had already been rushing him, shouted wildly and proceeded to tackle him to the ground and pin him. John had flailed his paws in the air and growled playfully but Bill was a big boy and had John in an awkward angle for a quadruped. Then everyone was laughing, even John in his own barking, canine laugh. From there it was a simple matter of Bill handing him his spare change of clothes from his practice bag and John trotting over to the changing booths across the field. It could have been much worse.

From then on it hadn't happened and John cautiously hoped to keep that record, no matter how well the Institute was prepared for it.

However, the first time that John witnessed another person slip-shift was that Friday night in the dining hall.

John had quickly spotted his friends at a table next to the far wall upon entering the hall, and when he was sure he didn't see Donovan or Anderson anywhere near them, he led Sherlock over to join them. He figured Sherlock's mood couldn't get much worse so it wouldn't hurt to subject him the friends he seemed to have very little tolerance for, and it would give John some other people to talk to, as he doubted Sherlock would say a word through the length of this meal.

The first half of the dinner went as well as John had allowed himself to expect. Sherlock even was picking at a bowl of spaghetti, albeit rather sulkily from where he sat to John's left. John and Greg talked rugby and football, his sport of choice, and Molly and Mike pleasantly added to the conversation. They had become used to Sherlock joining them for meals sometimes and it didn't seem to bother them anymore that he very, very rarely contributed to the small talk.

There was a group of secondary school students at the table to the right of theirs. It was a large group, probably seven or eight kids, and they were talking and laughing so loudly it took John a second to grasp the change in the cacophony.

There was an angry clatter as both plates and silverware crashed to the ground. A loud snarl ripped through the domestic sounds, unbefitting of humans. Then there was more clattering, but not just from the secondary student's table as it was rocked violently; there was sounds of falling dishes behind him, too, as he'd turned to his right instinctively to watch the chaos unfold.

John felt sorry for the boy who had just been a fairly average sized teen and now had exploded into a nearly fully mature and full sized, roaring lion, golden mane flaring out wildly. Confused and lost, it gave a short growl through an open mouth as his heavy head snapped from side to side trying to figure out what had happened.  
>Soon, the chaos died down, as a slip-shift was not an uncommon occurrence, however momentarily unsettling it was.<br>John had risen a few inches out of his seat to see better and now turned to look behind him, wondering if he'd accidentally knocked something of Sherlock's off the table, causing the sounds he'd heard a moment ago.

When he turned, he indeed found all of Sherlock's dinnerware and food splattered across the floor, but it was not John who put it there, and what he saw now rocked the rules and guidelines of John's world.

Sherlock had fallen out of his seat, now nearly sitting on the floor and leaning all his weight on the wall. His eyes were wide and locked onto the unfortunate Changeling who had slip-shifted into a large beast. Sherlock's chest rose and fell rapidly, almost as if he was hyperventilating. Where his arms had pulled his school shirt taught against his chest, John could swear he could see Sherlock's heart trying to burst out of his chest. Even seeing all of these symptoms together it took John an oddly long time to come to the only conclusion that made sense—Sherlock looked absolutely _terrified_.

Something about the scenario just didn't add up. This was strange—it was wrong. But there the genius sat, hands fisted so tightly that his knuckles had gone white, mouth open and breathing raggedly. Almost of its own accord, as John's mind was still completely shocked, his body moved instinctively towards Sherlock. He lowered himself down but when Sherlock still made no indication that he saw anything other than the confused big cat being led out of the dining hall, he paused. His hand rose up and reached out.

"Sherlock…?" he finally prompted.

The response was instantaneous. His head whipped around to John's face then to John's outstretched hand and his eyes widened even more for just a second before he closed them and detonated.

"_Don't touch me!_" he shouted venomously and regained mobility, shoving John away.

He stood and hesitated, eyes locked on John, who was now sprawled out on his arse. He looked frightened once more. John rubbed his backside and Sherlock took a few steps back, head shaking in what seemed to be denial, and then, before John could recover, he turned and bolted, leaving John in a very confused, undignified heap on the floor.

In the aftermath of the secondary student's slip-shift nobody any distance away seemed to notice the small amount of chaos that had been caused by Sherlock Holmes. John's friends, however, could not be included in that category. They looked as flabbergasted as John felt. Greg came over to help John up, offering his hand.  
>"Now, what the hell was that?" he asked, looking towards the door Sherlock had disappeared through.<br>John stared, too.  
>"I have… absolutely no idea," he breathed.<p>

John didn't see Sherlock for the rest of the weekend. He tried knocking on his door and he tried texting but he didn't hear from, nor see, the Changeling once. It wasn't until Monday that John really started to worry though.

His habit of waiting for Molly, and then Sherlock, after chemistry had held fast through the term and today he was particularly eager for the bell to ring and the students to pour out. He'd looked for Sherlock that morning at breakfast and knocked on his door for three straight minutes to no avail. He had no idea what he'd done to make Sherlock so upset with him but he was tired of how it was driving him to distraction. He would corner Sherlock and make him explain why he was so angry with him—or at least why he'd acted the way he had.

While it was a brilliant plan in theory, it was destined to never come to fruition as Molly exited the classroom last, without John catching a single glimpse of Sherlock. Had he missed him? John thought, looking wildly down the hallway as Molly approached him.

"He wasn't in class," she said, clearly understanding what John was looking for.

John's head snapped back to meet her eyes.

"What?" he said.

Molly's fingers tightened around her text book.

"He wasn't there," she repeated. "I asked Lindsey and she said that he wasn't in Advanced Literature either."

John's brow furrowed and a troubled feeling settled over him. This wasn't right. Sherlock skipped classes regularly but usually it was because he was doing something more important, something he usually informed John of in great detail. And with the events of the last few days, a newer, more concerning picture was forming. John didn't know what it meant but it made his stomach twist uncomfortably. A foul taste persisted on his tongue until the bell that chimed the end of his chemistry class finally released him. By the time he made it through the doorway into the hallway he wouldn't have been able to tell anyone what his teacher had taught that day.

John heaved his bag over his shoulder and with quick footsteps he made his way directly towards A Wing. His breathing had thickened by the time he reached the top of the sixth flight of stairs as he had taken them two at a time. He didn't bother taking the time to drop his school bag and instead passed straight by, bee lining for 631A.  
>He didn't knock politely this time and instead banged his fist against the door solidly, aiming to startle. He heard something fall to the floor inside. Just what he'd wanted.<br>"Damnit, Sherlock! I know you're in there! Let me in!"

There was no response. John slammed his fist against the door once more, knowing he was making a little bit of a scene and not caring much at all.  
>"If you don't stop being a childish twat and open this door I'm going to break it," John shouted through the door.<p>

Whether or not John would have actually done so remains to be seen, as when he raised his fist to pound on the door once more, it swung open to reveal a very unhealthy, very angry Sherlock Holmes.

"What, John! What!" he shouted back.

He made to turn around and slam the door as he realized he'd breached his own defenses but John threw a hand out and caught it, pushing his way in. The door swung shut behind him and Sherlock stomped away. John let his school bag fall to the floor.

"Where the hell have you been?" John asked angrily.

Sherlock shot a glare over his shoulder as he made to go back to his bed where John suspected, by the look of it, he had been for the past three days. Sherlock looked a bit like hell now that John actually looked. His cheeks were pale and his eyes had dark, heavy rings beneath them.

Sherlock threw himself back onto the bed and curled into an unresponsive ball.

"I don't know what I did which was so terrible, to piss you off so badly, but I would highly appreciate if you could give me a sodding clue!" John shouted, his worry translating into anger somewhere along the way.

Sherlock twisted to glare venomously in his direction, the effect was lessened, though, when John saw he was shaking, very lightly trembling. He counted back the days before the slip-shift event to the last time he knew Sherlock had gone into the forest. Last Monday, he finally calculated. No wonder he looked like hell.  
>"Sherlock, when was the last time you Changed?" John asked, voice calming slightly.<p>

John knew that tremble was a side effect of repressing the shift instinct. It was unpleasant and never led to anything good. Sherlock's eyes narrowed and he rolled back over, blocking John out.

"None of your business!" he threw over his shoulder.

"Of course not! Of course it's not!" John shouted, utterly exasperated. "I'm only your friend!"

At those words Sherlock rolled, off the bed and to his feet, face reddening. His stance was wide and would have been strong except for that damned tremble that kept capturing John's attention. That wasn't good. Why was he doing this to himself? What was wrong?

"I don't have _friends_!" he hissed, the last word spit like it was disgusting.

That struck John somewhere he hadn't even though to defend. His eyes widened and he lost ground for a moment, but then he saw the way Sherlock was shaking like a leaf now and the way his chest rose and fell rapidly like it had the last evening they'd been together. Fear. Why did he keep forgetting that Sherlock was human, too? He could feel fear. John sighed tiredly and took a step towards the person he'd moments ago thought to be a friend. Maybe he'd been wrong. It didn't matter.

"Look, let's get you out to the woods. You'll feel better after you Change," John said, reaching out.

Sherlock's eyes snapped open and he opened his mouth to protest, or shout, and began to jump backwards. Then something happened that nobody at the Baker Institute had ever witnessed, all in response to an outstretched hand.

The beast in Sherlock exploded. Maybe it was that he'd resisted changing for too long. Perhaps it was a defense mechanism in the face of feelings he'd forgotten how to cope with, but whatever it was Sherlock Holmes was slip-shifting.

It was over in a second. There were shredded clothes scattered about the room, barely noticeable in the preexisting clutter, and Sherlock stood on all fours, ribcage heaving and powerful jaw hanging open, head hung low.

John was speechless. His mouth was open he knew, but he couldn't remember how to shut it. The panther stood frozen for a few moments and then, wide, shocked blue eyes narrowed, still staring at the floor, and a sound escaped the Changeling that, if it had come from anyone but Sherlock, could have been called a sob.

"Sherlock…" John breathed and the head snapped up to meet his eyes, muzzle wrinkled, exposing teeth in a way that wasn't aggressive but… sad.

The Changeling began to back slowly away but this time John knew he couldn't give in. In a daze he followed. The sounds of heavy, soft paws sliding backwards across the floor were matched by human footfalls, and they finally stopped as Sherlock had backed himself into the corner between his bed and nightstand. There he seemed to curl back and away from the approaching shape that was John. Finally close enough, John dropped to his knees, eyelevel with the panther's narrowed, fearful gaze.  
>He tried to speak but was still unable. Instead he reached out, and when Sherlock pulled his head back John forced himself not to flinch away. Sherlock's whiskers quivered and breath escaped through his open maw. Still John didn't stop. Not this time.<p>

He hesitated for just a fraction of a second when he was no more than a hair away from touching Sherlock's dark ruff. Then, ever so gently, sliding forward, he slid his fingers deep into the midnight fur on Sherlock's neck. John heard him hiss and felt him tense, eyes locked on the place where his hand met fur.

Then the spell was broken and the panther shift seemed to collapse forward, forehead plowing into John's shoulder. He was heavy and John had to brace himself to stop them both from tumbling to the ground. He leaned back against the bed for support.

If they had both been in human form then it could have been a sort of hug, but in these forms it was an awkwardly comfortable half embrace, John inclining against the bed and Sherlock leaning his full weight into his shoulder, John's body and arms holding him up.

John didn't know how long they stayed like that. He still didn't have any of the answers he came for and really he no longer cared in the slightest. Sherlock was in pain and John didn't know why, but he didn't need to know why to know what he had to do to help. All he was responsible for was making sure Sherlock didn't fall to the ground. That was all that mattered right now—as long as it took.

The light was draining out of the sky now. John could see that through the window, and his arm had fallen asleep hours ago. The heat of Sherlock's feline breath had created a damp patch on John's shirt that was hidden beneath the heavy, black head and still John didn't move. He wouldn't move. As darkness fell over the Institute John stayed, and Sherlock made no move to force him out.


	7. Scars

_**_******Author's Notes:**This will be a full length AU fic and will be posted up here as I finish and my lovely, amazing beta, **kathecello, **cleans them up! Warnings for the whole story: general adult themes, swearing, mentions of child abuse, violence and graphic sex. Rating has gone up.****_**_

_**_****I really wasn't going to post this until at least tomorrow because it's finals week next week and I didn't want to leave you hanging if i couldn't finish another chapter but I'm farther ahead than I thought so... here it is! On another note, I am absolutely shocked, stunned and overjoyed with the reviews this has been getting and i hope to keep hearing from you all. You brighten my day. One last thing, if this fic were a TV series this would be the first season finale and that is why it is so long. =] Hope you all enjoy.  
><strong>**_**_

_**How to Build a Heart out of Ashes: **__Scars_

_by: Teumessian_

John awoke late that night with a crick in his neck and a sore spot in his back from where he'd somehow managed to fall asleep sitting against the bed frame. He was freezing, arms limp at his sides. After a moment of sorting through his memories, and recalling exactly where he was and why he was there, he immediately, albeit groggily, lolled his head from side to side, trying to figure out where Sherlock was.

He wasn't far. The Changeling had slipped down and was now curled into a tight ball in the corner created by his bed and nightstand. He was still resting in the shape of a great cat and his black, sleek back mostly hid his head from view, but from the steady rise and fall of his body, John could only assume he was asleep.

From where John sat he could just see the tapering tips of Sherlock's scars curling over his shoulder blade. They were black like the rest of his melanistic skin, but even masked by his midnight pelt, they were too large to go unnoticed. While John had never seen them, he knew they were present on the boy as well, just beneath his clothes the scars disfigured his otherwise near flawless skin. They were old, those scars, that he could tell. They had grown larger as Sherlock had. He was so used to seeing them there, just lightly marring the black coat, that he usually overlooked them now. John overlooked so much these days.

Mycroft's words floated back to him. He knew he probably should have considered the elder Holmes' words with more care. Sherlock certainly proved him with no evidence to disprove anything Mycroft had claimed, in fact in some ways he continually supported his brothers concerns. John really didn't know a damned thing about Sherlock. He knew something about his personality, his moods, and his abilities, but other than what he'd heard through school gossip, Sherlock hadn't provided John with a single scrap of information.

_Don't touch me!_

The acid soaked words echoed around in his head. John could still see Sherlock's face in his mind. John's expectations had been clouding his perception of the event. He'd seen only vicious anger in Sherlock's face, but tonight had officially and completely shattered that delusion and left something much more awful in its place, because where John had once seen a cocktail of anger and fright was now an image of unquenchable terror—terror and something… broken.

Something had been broken. John had seen it in the eyes of the panther, when Sherlock pushed it too far and lost control. Something that was usually carefully guarded and shut away had escaped.

One of Sherlock's fluffy ears twitched in his sleep. John brought both of his hands up to rub his face sleepily. He sighed. He was way out of his depth.  
><em>But can you handle Sherlock, himself?<em>

Was this what Mycroft had been talking about? The shadows that had allegedly shaped him? John didn't know, but his insides were finally settling. The wrongness he'd felt, guts twisting into knots, was gone now. This felt right in a way. So he wouldn't give up just yet. It was always a long game when it came to Sherlock, but he always played it out. He'd ask Sherlock tomorrow, about everything, and it would be okay, because, no matter what Sherlock thought or felt, they were friends.  
>John carefully rose to his feet and as he moved away, a bushy tail that had wound around his ankle loosened and then curled around Sherlock's coiled body.<p>

The next morning John knocked on Sherlock's door, fully prepared to ask a multitude of questions and get at least one answer from the elusive genius, but then the door flew open and John was surprised and utterly derailed. Sherlock was in his school uniform, all of it, from the jacket to shined black shoes. He was even wearing his tie, red stripes indicating he was still a sixth form. And then there was his face. He was smiling, and his eyes were wide and bright.  
>"Good morning, John!" he said animatedly. "Time for a bit of breakfast, don't you think? I'm starving!"<p>

This was only getting stranger. Had John dreamed the last few days up? What the hell was going on? Before John even had a chance to respond, Sherlock was whipping past him into the hallway.

John opened his mouth to ask was Sherlock thought he was doing, but he was interrupted before he could start.

"What do you think about a nice cup of tea, John? Doesn't that sound absolutely lovely?" Sherlock asked him as he whisked down the hallway, leaving John no choice but to follow.

No, no, no, this was ridiculous!

"Sh-Sherlock!" John stammered and his friend stopped abruptly, turning towards him with a winning smile.

"Yes, John?" he asked, high cheeks flushed.

John shook his head, mouth lightly parted. Sherlock's eyes were open and waiting. John paused for a moment, letting his brain catch up. Sherlock had to know John would see through this strange show he was putting on. John wasn't stupid. He wasn't seriously going to just forget about the last seventy two hours.

But in that short pause John noticed something. There was something else behind the cheerful shine in Sherlock's eyes—absolute desperation. It was as clear in John's mind as when Sherlock spoke to him in Baker Forest.

Sherlock's eyes were _begging_ him not to ask all the questions just waiting to jump off his tongue. John would have told anyone who said Sherlock possessed the ability to beg that they were a liar… but right now, just under the skin of pleasantries that were also ridiculously uncharacteristic, Sherlock's whole being begged one sentiment: Please. _Please, don't ask, John, please…_

So John did the only thing he could possibly do in such a situation.

"You're right," he said with a small smile. "Tea sounds brilliant."

Sherlock blinked once in surprise, faltering, before he smiled again, noticeably less forced. Then, together, the pair made their way down to the dining hall.

. . .

The last few days of spring term passed quickly. It was a flurry of last minute coursework, packing and arrangements, though only about half of the population of the Institute was preparing to return to their families.

Unlike most boarding schools, Institutes were open all year round. This was for many reasons, but the two primary reasons were that the Institutes were much better equipped to handle the needs of young Changelings, which often made city living very difficult, as it often was for people of shifts of any size or special needs. Because of this, the Institute highly recommended Changelings within a year or two of their first Change, depending on their age, stay on campus through the majority of the summer months.

The other reason was less discussed but equally if not more important. Sometimes Changelings were born into primarily Normal households, as John was, the recessive gene buried in a family's blood, but some families were not so accepting as John's. It wasn't as common these days, but it still happened, newly shifted Changelings being rejected by their Normal kin. It was a sad thing, but the Institute always made sure that those children had a welcoming home.

Other than the two large logistical reasons young Changelings stayed through the summer, many older Changelings also stayed for a multitude or reasons. The university students were often independent and worked in the nearby towns, and the sixth formers often chose to get summer jobs. For others the Institute was just home now.  
>Due to John's seemingly stable tendencies against slip-shifting and the ease at which he settled, he'd faced no opposition when he'd decided to return home when the term ended. His mother had been very persistent in her pursuit to have John home as soon as possible, at least for a visit. While he was looking forward to visiting his family—his mum and dad at least—he couldn't completely suppress the light reluctance as well as the worming discomfort that the thought of leaving inspired.<p>

John wasn't in the dark about why either. Sherlock had seemed much better since Tuesday morning. He seemed to be eating more than normal, which was still less than anyone else, but it was something. He'd even turned in all his final coursework. He'd gone into the woods almost every day with John since then, Sherlock to make up for his self neglect and John because he wanted to get as much time under the trees before being cooped up in a suburb for weeks.

Most people would have taken this as a good sign, and indeed it had made Sherlock look the healthiest John had seen him since he'd known him, but it wasn't the health of his body that worried John at the present. He'd catch little visions of it behind Sherlock's carefully constructed mask, and even more he couldn't help but feel it brushing against his mind when they were in the forest—a broken emptiness, something _wrong_. Nor could he forget the way he looked on Monday, no matter how far away it seemed under the gaze of the sun. At night it felt far too real.

Then, before John could seem to get a handle on a single thing, he was locking his door, 614A, with a heavy duffle slung over his shoulder. He was worried he wouldn't catch most of his friends before he left. Molly had left the previous evening and said goodbye at dinner, and then he ran into Mike before he reached the sixth floor stair well.

John found Greg in the cafeteria with Sally and Anderson, along with a few others. Greg hopped up from the bench seat and then came over to meet John. He and Mike both weren't going home right away. Sherlock was staying as well.

"You headed off, mate?" he asked as he approached.

"Yup, I'll be eating a home cooked mean before sundown," John said cheekily.

Sure enough a wistful look crossed Greg's face.

"I envy you," he said. "Bring leftovers when you come back."

John laughed and then an awkward twist hit his stomach as he prepared himself for what he wanted to say next.

"Ah, um, let me know if Sherlock does anything too crazy, will you?" John forced a chuckle, trying to play it off as a joke.

Greg pursed his lips and John realized he probably hadn't been very successful with his façade. Greg took it well.

"You'll be the first to know, mate," he smiled, and john inwardly sighed with relief.

John almost gave up on catching Sherlock before he left. He swallowed his distaste as he put his duffle in the back of the cab that would take him to Oxenholme Station.  
>"John?" the voice made his head turn, and he smiled.<p>

Sherlock had obviously just come from the library as there were several thick volumes in his hands.

"You aren't going to destroy these ones are you?" John laughed softly.

Sherlock scowled lightly.

"I've told you, I didn't destroy the others. I even returned them," Sherlock defended himself.

John just giggled.

"Sherlock, they all had numerous pages missing, pages you poured acid on if I recall," John laughed, but then sobered. "The cabbie is waiting…"

John nodded up towards the driver's side of the cab.

"Of course," Sherlock said, stepping back so John could get around the bumper.

"Don't get into too much trouble without me, okay?" John said, trying not to sound legitimately worried. "And let me know if you figure out that double homicide."

Huh, John wouldn't have seen those words falling casually from his mouth six months ago. SO much had changed.

Sherlock nodded and John hesitated for just a moment before he climbed into the cab. He leaned back in his seat and felt the engine come alive beneath him. As he began to roll away he risked a glance back to see Sherlock still standing there, looking thin and fragile in front of Baker Hall, and John fought very hard the instinct that said things were about to shift irreversibly once more.

. . .

Sherlock had fallen asleep sometime just before sunrise. There were many reasons why Sherlock normally avoided sleep. He would tell people the chief reason for his blood pact with insomnia was that he found sleep an utterly dull waste of time—which was completely true, however, it was not the reason the habit began. It had started as a way to avoid the nightmares. Even as a child his mind could figure out nothing was hiding in the dark, while he was awake, but when he slept, his own mind turned against him. The only thing that could beat him. He mostly grew out of the nightmares. They'd faded, but then there would be a trigger, and they would return with a harsh vengeance—as they did now.

Sherlock was in his childhood bedroom, with a tiny body to match, same striped pajamas he grew out of so quickly. But it wasn't quite his bedroom… it was arranged like it, the little four post bed, the large stuffed cat in the corner, what his mother had thought to be a befitting gift, given the Holmes' feline tendencies, but there were no walls, just a shadowed forest. The dark trees and bushes spread in all directions and there was nothing but night above and earth below. For someone so utterly logical, his brain came up with some rather creative settings.

Then he heard a growl and his heart stuttered in his tiny chest before restarting and madly trying to escape his chest. Chemicals were amazing. It was all chemical—the fear rushing through his too small body. No matter how many times he repeated that simple fact… even when he was this small, he was always astonished when it didn't make him any less terrified.

_The brain releases Epinephrine… Norepinephrine… The pituitary gland releases Corticotropin-releasing factor… Adrenocorticotropic hormone… They all work to trigger dozens of other hormones… this creates the emotional response known as fear… The brain releases Epinephrine…_

He repeated it over and over but his heart still pounded and his tiny hands still shook.

A branch snapped somewhere behind him and he turned, wanting so badly to run to his bed and bury himself beneath the blankets, but he was frozen and unable to move an inch.

It was so dark. Why was it so dark! No moon looked down, it couldn't see him. It never saw.

There was that growl again, part man part beast.

He had had to escape. He had to protect himself—somehow—someway. He had to change. Stop this. Stop it!

Then he was no longer a child but a cub, paws too big for his body and claws too small to do anything. No, it was never enough to stop it but sometimes it slowed it. He was shaking so hard on his short bowed legs, tail curled around him.

It was close now. Sherlock could hear the breathing, harsh and rough. Cold, horrible eyes glinted in the freezing starlight. The ripping growls were so loud now, consuming. Sherlock was aware he was mewling pathetically, a sad sound only befitting of the helpless cub he was… so helpless. Why did no one save him?

The snarling was eating at his insides and the monster was so close now.

Nobody could stop this.

Nobody could save him.

He curled in on himself.

**Come now, that's enough!**the beast snarled impatiently.

Sherlock knew what was expected but he just coldn't move.

**Look at me!**

He tried, but he couldn't.

There was a violent roar and finally Sherlock's head snapped up but it was too late. A blood golden haze consumed him. There were flashing eyes, sharp teeth, razor claws raised, and then pain.

**NO…!**cried the voice of a cub, sad snarl hitting the air in time.

Sherlock gasped awake, back arching against fabricated pain that was now long gone. He was shivering and sweaty. Of its own accord his hand came up to clench over his rib cage where he could feel the raised knotted tissue even through his now damp and wrinkled button up. His face contorted before he forced his muscles to relax completely. Then he lay still.

He would have been content to stay like that, a statue, for the rest of the day, if not for the knock on his door a few hours later. It was dark in the room but Sherlock could see it was still completely light outside. Sherlock fully planned to ignore the knock but the knob turned and Sherlock cursed internally for two reasons. First, for forgetting to lock the bloody door and second, according to a nanosecond's deduction, based upon the fact that Sherlock only knew two people who would barge into his room, and one of those two people was at his family home very far away from the prodigious Baker Institute, the only person who could be walking into his room now was…

"Hello, my dear brother."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and flipped onto his side so he wouldn't have to look at his pretentious kin. Unfortunately, he hadn't plugged his ears.  
>"I didn't come here to start a fight with you, Sherlock," Mycroft said, something far worse than inflammatory in his voice. "I heard about what happened just before the end of term."<p>

The words hung in the air and Sherlock determinedly didn't respond. He could picture Mycroft, though, gazing down at him with that absolutely hateful mix of pity, irritation and guilt. So much for not seeing him—he remembered it clearly enough.

"He's not stupid, Sherlock. He's already guessing. What you have with young Mr. Watson… if you remain in his presence you have to know it's inevitable that you won't be able to hide it forever. It's simply not feasible. And, Sherlock, would it really be so bad if he knew…?"

Sherlock stared at the wall and tried to pretend he was somewhere else but logic was getting in the way. Yes! It would be so bad he wanted to say. But for some reason he couldn't.

"I believe you are unable to do what's best… what you want," Mycroft's voice was hardening. "I'm going to see him today. I came here because I thought you might want to know."

He should be moving, reacting, shouting, but he didn't. he lay there paralyzed as he heard that bloody umbrella his brother seemed to carry everywhere click against the floor, and as he heard footsteps—the turn of a knob, the squeak of the hinges, a door closing—and still he wasn't moving.

Did Mycroft just ask Sherlock his _permission_to… to…

With a sudden intake of breath, Sherlock bolded upright, hands fisting in the bed clothes, as a more important question struck him.  
>Had he just <em>given<em>him that permission!

A little part of him wanted to chase after Mycroft, demand, _beg_, that he stop. He felt sick as he thought of John's face, and then that face marred with disgust. He would leave, most likely. In his place Sherlock might. Maybe that was better—after all. He was used to being alone. Alone was safe.

Sherlock pulled the old dumbness drown him. He sat against the wall, drew his knees up and slowly laid his cheek upon them. His blue eyes were open but empty.  
>It was for the best…<p>

. . .

Two weeks after he arrived home, John lay on his back on his simple bed in his old room. The room was small, as their home was situated behind and above his mother's bakery. John didn't mind as it meant he was just a stairway away from town, which had been quite an asset over the years.

He could faintly hear the chime of the bell on the door that said someone was entering the shop. John wondered when his father would be home.

His father had been both a military man and a doctor. This had influenced many of John's life goals and all of his values. He'd been a successful surgeon in London, after the army, when he met John's mother. They moved out of the city when they decided to have children, as well as allowing his mum to pursue her dream of owning a bakery. His father now worked as a family practitioner in town and when John asked him if he missed the excitement he said he didn't usually, and was glad to have put a little distance between himself and the reaper, as they'd become disturbingly close of the years. However, there was something in the lines of his face when he said it that made John suspected that if he didn't miss it he at least remembered it fondly.

"So, do I have to take you on walks now?"

John hadn't bothered to unpack properly so his things were scattered around his room in a way that was seriously irking his father. Harry Watson currently leaned against his open door, eyes locked onto John's marking hanging from his desk chair. John didn't know why he'd brought it, an accident really, as he obviously wouldn't need it.

"I can walk myself, thank you very much," John said, tone sour.

Harry just laughed and secretly John had to admit it had sounded better in his head. Determined not to give Harry any more satisfaction, John reached for his mobile and checked his inbox, ignoring her.

"Still texting your boyfriend?"

Dear _god_, she was insufferable.

Since John had arrived back his parents had, of course, wanted to hear all about his first term at Baker. Due to the sheer amount of time he and Sherlock spent together it was inevitable that he came up often in conversation. Harry had noticed, and since had latched on to the boyfriend joke, not that it was meant as an _insult_exactly—obviously, as Harry was as gay as they come, herself—but it got under John's skin to have to correct her and it was wearing on him. It was particularly annoying this time because she'd been right.

Not about the boyfriend part, but the Sherlock part was correct. Sherlock had texted him a lot since he'd been home. Usually they were a simple statement of boredom, to which John had taken to looking up obscure riddles on the internet and sending them to Sherlock to see how long it would take him to solve them—usually no time at all. Sherlock also texted him if he figured out one of the Scotland Yard files, or finished an experiment. He'd solved two cases and a number of experiments since John had been home. However, John hadn't heard from Sherlock once today and that strange instinct was pricking at his mind again.

He was really in no mood to handle Harry's instigating.

Without a word he rolled off his bed and grabbed his jacket.

"Where are you going?" Harry asked, as he donned the garment.

"For a walk," John said shortly.

Before she could figure out another way to bait him, John stepped around her hand headed for the stairs, not for the first time wishing it was Baker Forest he was headed towards.

His mother was busy with a customer so John's slipped out without a word. The roads weren't very busy at this time of evening and the silvered sky was just dimming as the sun started to sink. John turned right, heading past Mrs. Harrison's flower shop. There weren't many other people walking around on the sidewalks and there was a strange quiet about.

A car drove by and then John saw a man standing on the street corner ahead of him. He was tall, well dressed, and looked more than out of place in John's sleepy town. One foot was crossed over the other and balanced on the toe of his shoe. He leaned on a black umbrella, though the sky showed no signs of rain. He was watching him, the young Changeling realized. It was a little unsetting, almost like he was waiting for him, and John tried to ignore it at first but he realized there was something distinctly familiar about the unfitting man.

He glanced up to meet the level gaze and they weren't so far away from one another now, and with an uncomfortable certainty, John suddenly had no doubt about the identity of the strange man.

"Mycroft," he said as he came to a stop in front of him, almost like he knew he was coming.  
>The man's lips twitched.<p>

"Very good, John. I didn't expect you to recognize me in this form," he said conversationally.

John wasn't having it. People who ran the entirety of the British Government didn't just drop by to chat with teenagers.  
>"Why are you here? Is Sherlock okay?" John asked tersely.<p>

Mycroft immediately dropped the pretense of pleasantries.

"Would you come inside?" Mycroft asked, nodding towards the tiny café on the corner—it looked closed.  
>John stiffened and glanced towards the ground.<p>

"What? No viper this time?" John asked bitterly.

To his credit, Mycroft did look at least lightly chagrined.

"I misjudged your character and I do not believe it is necessary," he said, notably excluding an apology. "This, however, is indeed about my brother. So, if you would…"  
>His head inclined towards the café once more and an internal war raged inside John as he knew intuitively what Mycroft's intentions must be. He tired futilely to balance his irritation and mistrust in Mycroft, his desperation to know the truth and his compromised loyalty. He decided the last was the most important.<p>

"No, I… it's not for you to say," John said, staring at the sidewalk and loathing his parents for raising him with such high moral standards. "I can't just… let you do this behind his back. If he doesn't want me to know…"

Mycroft folded his hands over the handle of his umbrella.

"Very noble, John Watson, but are you sure that's the truth of the matter?" Mycroft asked archly. "Are you sure it's not that he doesn't want you to know but that he can't bring himself to tell you tell you?"

John rocked back on his heels and brought up all the memories of Sherlock. His denial of questions, his begging eyes, and then a thought occurred to John that he hadn't entertained before.

Perhaps when he'd begged it wasn't a plea of, 'Please, don't ask because I don't want you to tell you' but, 'Please, don't ask because I _cannot_ tell you.'  
>While the thought was intriguing it wasn't enough to shake John's misgivings.<p>

"Why wouldn't he just tell me?"

"You are not an idiot, John. Don't pretend you are completely blind to Sherlock's circumstances."

John's chest puffed out defensively at that, though the barb went straight to his heart where his terrible suspicions had bloomed.

"How could you possibly know that he wants me to know?" John said, looking up defiantly at Mycroft and wishing he wasn't so damned short.  
>Mycroft sighed, obviously tired of this game. His eyes narrowed.<p>

"Because I told him I was coming here today, and he didn't try to stop me," he said it simply, and without another word began moving towards the empty café.

John hesitated for a moment, feeling his stomach unsettled. His hand clenched around his mobile, the one that had been concerningly silent all day. He saw Sherlock alone in the dark and his panther hissing in pain and then John followed Mycroft into the café.

The lights were on inside but no one was visible. John wouldn't run. He followed Mycroft ot a small table. They sat, Mycroft overly controlled and John stiffly.  
>Mycroft looked far away and they sat in awkward silence for a while. John didn't complain.<p>

"Where to begin…" Mycroft finally murmured, not wanting to begin at all.

John stared at him, determined to hold composure, as the tale of betrayal began.

"When I was a child I was considered a prodigy—clever, capable… I was talented and ambitious and there was no doubt that I was going to be very successful in my lifetime. So, when I tell you Sherlock was special from birth… well you already know about his cleverness, his abilities… but when he was young there was something about him. There was a light in his eyes, so brilliant and so curious he was, always got into the strangest things as a toddler…" Mycroft trailed off, voice a strange mix of fondness and emptiness. "But around the time of Sherlock's third birthday something was different in him. Then Sherlock made the first Change."

The surprise knocked John out of his stoicism.

"What! At age three…? But that's—can that happen?" John asked.

Mycroft's mouth curled and for an odd second John thought he was jealous of his unique younger brother but then he noticed the pallor in his face and John knew he wasn't green with envy but with suppressed nausea.

"Yes, it happens… very rarely. The latest research has shown that if a young Changeling is repeatedly exposed to extremely high levels of stress or hopelessness… desperation can manifest in the Change…"

Oh god. Oh _god_. The thoughts pounded around like elephants in John's head ahs his brain was figuring it out far faster than his mind was able to cope with.  
><em>Don't touch me!<em>The memory was so clear.

"We should have realized then… but I was too young… and Mummy was so blinded. My father, Sigur Holmes, was a successful man. He was at the center of the social sphere, influential and intelligent. His shift was a lion, staying true to the tendency that the Holmes bloodline had towards feline forms. Oh, he was always a fearsome man and I remember I used to so badly want to be like him—Mummy always said I possessed his finer qualities, but he never showed more than a passing interest in me. My father only had children to fulfill what he believed to be a duty to the family line, but he took a special interest in my younger brother. I remember I used to be so bitter about it, too," Mycroft chuckled but there wasn't a trace of humor in his voice, only a sickly deprecation. "We were both brilliant, but Sherlock was so much cleverer, and he had this innocent glow about him… but as I said, that changed when turned three. He no longer ran about the mansion giggling and screaming, asking me to play with him when I was home. He still played some games, but mostly he spent an exorbitant amount of time as a black cub, or hidden in nooks and crannies of the estate, reading books far too serious for a child. Mummy thought it was just a phase. I was too busy with myself to have an opinion…"

John's knuckles were white where his clenched fists pressed harshly against the tops of his thighs. It sounded so horribly lonely, the picture Mycroft was painting.

"Two years passed and nobody suspected a thing," Mycroft said, and John swore the room tilted because gravity, along with all that was good and right with the world, had obviously failed. "While Sherlock's originally gentle nature came from my mother, his addictive personality certainly came from our father, whose other addictions finally triggered his undoing… it happened late one night when my father returned drunk from one of his many social functions. I was home from Overfield and everyone was sleeping… so he—he did what he always did on such nights… when nobody was there to see—to stop him… excuse me…"

Distantly John could tell Mycroft was having trouble with his own composure. He was completely green. John thought he might vomit.

"But he was so intoxicated he wasn't as in control as he usually was… Sherlock had shifted. We later learned he—Sherlock, he'd change sometimes, on accident or not, trying to… to stop it… protect himself in some way."

John could see the panther hiding in the shadows of the forest, eyes guarded, and now he knew why. John was sure he was going to be sick as well. The words washed around him, and he could barely absorb them, but they wormed their way into his being somehow.

"This night, when Sherlock changed, our father became enraged. He—he couldn't… couldn't do anything… while Sherlock was in that form," Mycroft faltered, unable to say the worst. "He began screaming at Sherlock… apparently he wouldn't shift back that night for some reason. That's what woke Mummy and I… the shouting. I ran to Sherlock's room… mine wasn't far away."

Mycroft had closed his eyes now and his hand was trembling—some detached part of John realized that such a powerful man shaking like this is something few would ever bear witness to. It didn't make him feel special, though. It was _awful_.

"I will never forget what I saw when I pushed open the door…" Mycroft's voice slipped out as no more than a breath now, lost to the dark past. "I remember that my brother's pajama trousers were thrown on the floor… his pants, too… I remember wondering why. For all the other things, I remember that the most. But then I did see my father. He'd already shifted by the time I arrived… then there was the blood—he'd gone too far. I believe I screamed… it was chaos… my baby brother was bleeding on the floor from where my father had lashed out… with inborn weapons… but the physical damage was nothing at the end of that day… I… I should have seen… we were just so young…"

Mycroft's coherency was failing him and though he couldn't move, John's entire being screamed against the horror. The rebellion against reality was making him ill.

_Sherlock…!_

Images flooded his mind, feelings remembered, too. All the shadows John felt brushing against his mind were brought into harsh, devastating context… he'd suspected something horrible, but—_Jesus Christ_—not this. He saw Sherlock's face in his mind's eye, studying, deducing, scowling, smiling… he felt like dry heaving but instead he just froze more completely—tried to become a statue. Stone couldn't feel like this.

Unable to make himself say the rest of the words, the man before John lowered his head. He took a deep breath and then looked up at the statue boy.

"My mother banished my father…" Mycroft started once more, and john's head snapped up, coming to life, revealing the light sheen of sweat that had gathered on his skin.

"What!" John blurted. "The—the _bastard_isn't in prison?"

Mycroft's face had hardened once more.

"He is not. My mother thought it was bad enough already and it would just make it worse to put Sherlock through the damaging ordeal of a trial. And Sherlock begged my mother not to make him do it. So she sent our father far, far away…."

"He deserves to rot in a prison cell!" John found himself shouting.

He deserves to _die_. The thought surprised him—not in its wording but in the fact that John realized he'd have no qualms about making it reality.

"It wouldn't have helped Sherlock. Although, I will say I would have handled the situation… differently than our mother had I been in her place as I am now… but she was so soft, and I was but a child."

Their gazes held one another for a moment and John realized Mycroft may well have felt exactly the same way as John did on the subject.

"Then what," John forced out, needing to see this through now.

"We tried to send Sherlock to therapy, but he just flat out refused. Wouldn't even say a word to a one of them. He was never the same. All he asked was to go to the Baker Institute, where he'd always wanted to attend when our parents decided he was old enough. We tried to get him to come to Overfield were I attended, but he insisted on Baker, and in the end my mother relented. He came home sometimes… but to this day he avoids coming back. The rest of the story you know."

Yes… John did. He floated back to his first day at Baker, Greg's words ringing.

_He doesn't talk to people if he can help it and he never slip-shifts. And he doesn't have friends._

John knew his eyes were glassed over but no tears fell. This was too horrible for that.

The moments dragged by as John stared unseeing. Mycroft watched, waiting to see how the first person who had gotten anywhere near Sherlock reacted to the truth of him.

"John?" he finally prompted.

The world lurched again, but then John realized it wasn't the world that had moved but his body. He heard the chair he'd been previously occupying clatter loudly against the floor as he stood violently, though it all sounded so far away. When his hand grasped the doorknob he heard Mycroft calling after him but he had to go.  
>He had to go.<p>

He stumbled into the street, out into the fading light. He tripped, but he managed to stop his fall by throwing out a hand to brace against a lamp post. He pulled himself forward, breath huffing out in unsteady puffs. Still he kept moving. He had to.

He ran down the empty street, in and out of pools of lamplight. Before he knew it he was on the stairs of his family's home, his father's voice following him. His mother asked what was wrong. Harry called him a freak, but none of that _mattered_. It didn't bloody matter. John had no idea what he was doing, but his hands were frantically shoving his possessions into his duffle. His hand closed around his marker, cold metal buckle shocking his skin. The zipper of his bag screamed as he ripped it shut.  
>He really didn't know what he was doing.<p>

He counted his breaths, in and out through his nose, eyes tightly shut in the back of a cab. Then he listened to the whistling rumble of a high speed train flying across the skin of the world, and still he had no idea what he thought he was doing.

He wasn't even sure when his foot finally hit the top step of the sixth flight of stairs the A Wing of dorms at the Baker Institute. It was late and his breathing was loud in the empty hallway. He carelessly dropped his bag on the doorstep of 614A without even slowing or checking to see where it fell. He was running and the urgency he couldn't explain was clawing so unbearably at his chest that it was painful. He had to go.

He definitely didn't know what he was doing when, without a second's pause, his hand reached out and twisted the knob of the door marked 631A and flung it open. Light poured into the dark room and a head whipped around instinctually at the burse of noise. He sat on his bed, leaning against the wall, knees tucked up to his chest. Blue eyes were currently snapped wide open in utter shock, pink lips parted in surprise.

"Sherlock," John breathed, lungs easing.

Sherlock opened his mouth to say something, but then it was as if he suddenly remembered the only reason why John would be here, now, and then his face contorted for a moment, and John not only saw but felt the pain, the shame.

_Christ_, what now? What could he possibly say?

When John couldn't speak, Sherlock managed to compose himself, life seeming to drain out of him. He looked away and rested his head against the wall, eyes open but unfocused.

Lucky for John his heart and body were smarter than his poor, useless mind and he very deliberately walked forward, closing the door behind him. Then he continued and without a word sat down on the firm mattress, and pushed himself backwards until he sat mimicking Sherlock's position, at his side.

They didn't speak, but John's shoulder pressed against Sherlock's upper arm. John's chin rested on his knees. There was no sounds expect for the near imperceptible sounds of four lungs breathing, and two hearts beating.

John leaned a little more solidly into Sherlock and, though it was impossible to tell, he thought he felt Sherlock return some of the pressure.

Neither boy moved until the sun began to slip through the curtains, burning away the dark, and the way of it was perfectly clear.

_I'm not going anywhere._


	8. Solstice

_**_**_******Author's Notes:**This will be a full length AU fic and will be posted up here as I finish and my lovely, amazing beta, **kathecello, **cleans them up! Warnings for the whole story: general adult themes, swearing, mentions of child abuse, violence and graphic sex. Rating has gone up.****_**_**_

___****Hello everyone! Hearing from all of you has really been making my life! Thank you all so much and keep it up! I hope you enjoy the latest chapter. I have finals next week but chapter ten should still be up sometime next week!  
><strong>**___

_**How to Build a Heart out of Ashes: **__Solstice_

_by: Teumessian_

John was lucky to get a summer job volunteering at the surgery on Baker's campus. It wasn't much, just cleaning floors, sterilizing exam tables and rooms and such, but his parents were understanding when he explained that he couldn't come home for more than a few days at a time for the rest of the summer. Plus Mike and Sebastian wanted to have practices at least weekly so the team didn't get out of shape, so he really _couldn't _go home. It had nothing to do with the Changeling who was nearly constantly in his presence.

After that horrible, frantic night, John had been worried that things were irreparably changed between them. He was afraid Sherlock would avoid him, or lash out like before, but not much had shifted at all. Well that wasn't exactly true. At first there was a clear rise in awareness. Both students had their own lives, their own interests, and once they would have kept them for the most part to themselves, the pieces of their lives strung together side by side, John's rugby, Sherlock's violin, John's friends, Sherlock's experiments, John's work and Sherlock's case files, and in between was their friendship. However, it was as if those in between bits had bled out and then snapped back, throwing the neatly organized spheres of their lives into a jumbled mess where everything overlapped.

Sherlock would follow John to rugby, to document the effects of high velocity impact, or for a full week it was to study the spread of grass stains depended upon the relative saturation of the earth. John went to Sherlock's room with his supplementary coursework and Sherlock played the violin, notably softer if John was studying. Despite the fact that it was probably against the rules, many evenings Sherlock could be found leaning against an exam room doorframe with an ancient Scotland Yard file in his hands, firing off facts and deductions as John purged the room of viruses and bacteria.

Sherlock still didn't _enjoy _spending much time with John's friends, but he was getting much more tolerant. He didn't always eat, but he did quite often join John in the dining hall, especially if a bribe of tea was on the table. Where he was once silent and off-putting, he now seemed to listen in on John and Greg's various sports related conversations, even commenting at times, especially when it came to tactics. Sometimes when the topic of sports news bored him he would actually discuss the sciences with Molly and Mike, often without constant scathing deprecation. His politeness didn't extend to Donovan or Anderson but their presence no longer ensured his absence from a meal.

On that note, he also began helping Greg with some of his Campus Guard work. If you could call overhearing Greg discussing vandalism, bullying, and the like with Anderson and Donovan and then offhandedly telling them who the culprit was while rudely insulting each of their intelligences 'helping.' Anyway, the issues got solved.

In the weeks after the slip shift and then John's return, Sherlock began to return to himself. The old scars had been irritated but surely they began to close up once more and John knew nothing was going to snap and shatter at a moment's notice anymore. Before John realized, they had passed out of the danger zone and in the summer haze it was easy to fight off the storm that had gathered.

It was all of these factors combined that finally led John to ask something of Sherlock that had never been asked of him before.

They were sitting in the stands of the football pitch. It was a beautiful day. The sun was high in the sky. There was a group of primary students playing out on the field between them and the forest, overlooked by a heron shift perched on one of the changing booths.

John lay out with a novel he'd borrowed from Mike, and his companion sat on the lowest bench, placing tufts of grass into test tubes filled with what he assumed to be various solutions. He wasn't exactly sure what this experiment was about. John glanced over at him. This was a good a time as any.

"Hey, um, Sherlock," John said to get his attention.

"Hmm?" he responded, without looking away from his clippings.

John swallowed and wet his lips before continuing.

"So, Greg and I have been talking about making a trip out to Hawkes Reservoir with Molly and Mike sometime this week. Molly said she'd pack a picnic…" John trailed off, as Sherlock was watching him carefully now. "I was… ah… I was thing maybe you could join us."

Sherlock said nothing for a moment.

"I assume you'll be travelling in shifted form," he said, which wasn't quite a question, as that was the usual method for trips out to the lakes.

While Sherlock had indeed grown much more tolerant of John's friends he still had yet to join them in the forest. John marked his page and closed the book.

"Ah, yes... that's the plan," John said.

"Absolutely not," Sherlock said simply and went back to his test tubes.

John sighed heavily.

He made the choice to not give up so easily this time, though, and despite Sherlock's initial flat out refusal, with time, reasoning and a fair bit of persistence, the young Changeling finally agreed. John's ears had suffered when Sherlock brought out his violin that evening but overall he thought it went rather well. In the end Sherlock claimed he needed water samples from the lake anyway.

. . .

True to his grudging word, Sherlock could be found trailing after John and his friends a few days later. The group bee lined towards the changing booths.

The school had a good supply of specialised gear that could be loaned out when older Changelings signed them out for expeditions off campus. Having large enough shift forms to carry weight, John and Greg volunteered to carry the food and a change of clothes for each for them so they could change back at the lake.

Greg and John shifted and then Molly and Bill slipped the specially made harness-packs over their bodies. Both Changelings' tails were wagging lightly in anticipation, especially Greg whose big ears were perked up and tail slapped against the ground.

John was immediately aware the moment that Sherlock shifted, the familiar presence of his mind brushing against John's. He swore he felt a flicker of anxiety but he knew better than to comment. While the knowledge of Sherlock's shift form had spread throughout many social circles at the Institute, Sherlock had knack for avoiding people in the forest that was unparalleled, probably because he had years of practice in the area. John knew he was worried about his scars, but their friends were good people. He knew they were intrigued though. Honestly, he didn't blame them. If anyone understood the mystery of Sherlock Holmes it was John.

"Oh!" Molly gasped as she stood, looking towards the booths.

John looked over his furry shoulder to see Sherlock sauntering towards them. He looked cool and collected but the words in his head and the lash of his tail told John a slightly different story.

**John, they're all looking at me. Make them stop it.**

John couldn't help the wheezy bark that was his giggle in this form.

**Oh, you're fine. They're just curious and interested. Like I was about your human form.**

This seemed to sufficiently distract him for a moment and his focus latched onto John.

**What? You were?**_Interest._

John's ears flicked in amusement.

**Course I was. You were being all mysterious and stuff.**

John felt the flush of egotistical pleasure and couldn't help but take the opportunity to tease the panther.

**That was before I knew how much of a prat you actually are.** he added, with mock disappointment.

He fought back another laugh as the arrogant Changeling's tail lashed in offence and he felt the flash of irritation before Sherlock was able to formulate a response. Sherlock was about to say something when he noticed Greg was staring curiously at the marring in Sherlock's pelt. Molly and Mike were both following his gaze, but looked away in an effort not to be rude. Sherlock hissed softly through his teeth and when he sat, he positioned himself so that his scars were blocked from view by John's body.

While Mike and Molly changed, John and Sherlock chatted about lake water and at first John felt bad about not being able to include Greg in the conversation but then he realized Greg was used to the quiet, as none of their shift speaking abilities were extensive enough for a normal conversation. Greg did, however, glance over at them a number of times when they would respond physically to something the other said, a turn of the head, a flick of the ears.

John was glad when Molly hopped out of her booth, soft brown cottontail shift visible against the dark grass. Mike wasn't far behind, masked raccoon looking eager.

_Wet. Altituted. _**Ready?** _Anticipation._

There was a chorus of positive responses and the white shepherd turned and led them into the forest.

. . .

The trip to the lake took the better part of the morning and the sun was just reaching its highest point when they reached it. John and Greg smelled it before they saw it and their exclamations of excitement spread through the group quickly turned the last leg of their journey into a race to the water's edge. All it took was a moment of eye contact between John and Greg and they were off, leaving their friends to try to sprint after them.

**John! Why are we running?**

John's tongue lolled out of his muzzle and he just barked back at Sherlock.

**Because it's a race, Sherlock!**

**What! Why?**

John could only bark once more, this time in laughter. By this point, and honestly since the beginning, it was truly just a race between the athletic and competitive John and Greg. Molly and Mike had long since trailed behind and even if Sherlock had not been too confused to compete; his form was made for stealth, not sustained speed.

**Because it's **_**fun,**_** Sherlock!**

Lightly distracted by Sherlock, John had slipped back a few meters behind Greg. That wouldn't do.

Then an urge took him, and John threw his furry head back and howled with euphoria. It was enough to get Greg's attention and allow John to catch up. He copied and howled as well, albeit lightly less impressively.

The water was close now and John and Greg quickly bent their heads to pull the quick release that allowed them to take the packs off in shifted form. There was an awkward tumble of limbs and straps and then they were free of them, sprinting again. Dry dirt was thrown up behind their paws and neither canine stopped when they reached the bank. There was one more bound and then John felt his muscles coil tight and then snap back, launching him high into the air. John felt the flash of alarm that was not his own just before he plunged into the cold water. Bubbles erupted around him and he heard the muted concussion as Greg hit the water a second after him. John didn't move for a moment, letting himself be suspended in the lake. The air that was trapped in his thick pelt was escaping in the form of tiny bubbles floating towards the sky.

**John?**

Sherlock actually sounded worried and that made John want to smile. Reanimated, John bobbed to the surface. Greg's white head and water logged ears were already moving towards the bank. John saw Sherlock on the bank and began to swim toward the water's edge. Mike and Molly were emerging from the trees.

**What? No cooling bath for you? Black fur like that, you must be sweltering.** John commented.

Sherlock's muzzle wrinkled and his ears swivelled back in disapproval.

**Despite my escalated body temperature, I'd rather not.**

When John climbed back onto dry land, sopping wet, he got an idea and though he tried to clamp down on the thought before it got free it seemed he was unsuccessful as Sherlock's eyes widened.

**No, John!** he complained but it was far too late.

John shook his body, hard, spraying water everywhere, and all over Sherlock, who snarled and recoiled. John looked pleased with himself as he used his back foot to knock the water out of his ears. Sherlock just stared at him murderously for a moment before going and dragging one of the packs behind a tree.

They all took turns changing, putting on their clothes, and once they were done they gathered on the bluff to eat their lunches. They all wore shorts and tee shirts, as they didn't take up much room in the bag, and John had seen what Sherlock packed but it still was a bit of a surprise to see him in khaki shorts and simple blue tee shirt. This far north it very rarely became so hot that Sherlock couldn't get away with jeans or his regular trousers and his usual button ups, rolled to the elbow during the summer. In the simple attire he wore currently he looked at least three years younger and far more vulnerable—less prickly. It wasn't bad for him at all. No, not bad at all. If they had been alone John would have teased but decided to spare his friend.

But then he wished he had, if only to stop the next topic from arising.

"So," Greg said around a mouthful of sandwich, "Those are some pretty intense scars, Sherlock. Did you get into a big fight?"

Molly looked a little mortified but Mike couldn't help but look highly interested. John was balking and Sherlock had frozen. Damnit, Greg! He had to cover for Sherlock. John forced himself to swallow, though his throat felt dry as a desert.

"Sort of, right, Sherlock?" John said, and Sherlock was look at him like he had two heads. "Ran into a rogue Wanderer when you were a kid going into the forest, yeah? So I guess it wasn't much of a _fight._"

Sherlock's eyes were wide and with all his might John tried to convey the idea—I'm helping you _lie_! Figure it out! Finally the so-called-genius got it.

"Oh, yeah," Sherlock said, glancing down at his sandwich. "I was in the forest near our estate with my elder brother and we encountered a Wanderer—lion shift. There was some confusion and I ended up with this."

He indicated the general area of the scar that was hidden beneath his clothing and John was shocked with how good his performance was for starting off so lost. He'd seen Sherlock act before and knew he was brilliant. Unfortunately John swore he could feel the flickering of pain, and hated it—hated that it wasn't the truth. He was glad his friends weren't looking at him as he slowly counted backwards from ten, convincing himself that it was absolutely illogical and irrational to hunt down and kill Siger Holmes. He would admit he'd had dreams about it.

"Wow… that sounds terrifying," Molly said softly.

"Seriously, mate," Greg added and Mike nodded in agreement with them. Sherlock shrugged and focused an unusual amount on his sandwich, but it was something only John would notice.

When the knot in his chest released he wasn't sure if it was just his relief or both his and Sherlock's he was feeling.

After lunch Sherlock collected samples from various parts of the lake and John and his friends talked and laughed on the bank. John even drew Molly into a splash fight, and he was glad to see her relax a little, being as shy as she was.

On the way back John and Sherlock chatted as they usually did, today's topic being the murder of an elderly woman. By most people's standards it wasn't a particularly pleasant topic but John and Sherlock didn't really fit most standards anyway. Greg was in front once more and John and Sherlock walked abreast, Molly and Mike behind them. This time it was Molly he was receiving the strange looks from whenever he would turn his head to respond to something Sherlock said. It was beginning to concern him.

It wasn't until they were walking across campus, fully clothed and fully human that John found out why she'd been showing so much interest. They were all tired from the active day so it was relatively quiet in the dusky air.

"Uhmm…" Molly began. "It might be a strange question but on the way back it seemed like you two were talking… I mean were you… talking?"

Then she blushed and looked down as she often did when something she said came out unlike she intended it to at all.

"Oh, ah, yeah. Sorry," John apologized, thinking he'd been ruder than he intended.

"I knew it!" Greg said.

"Yeah, thought there was something I was missing," Mike agreed, nodding.

He looked between his friends.

"What?" he asked, confused.

"It's just odd because you're new and none of our abilities really allow for more than simple messages… but it just seemed like you two were actually… conversing," Molly explained, and then looked a little excited. "How much can you talk to each other?"

John glanced up at Sherlock for support but he seemed to be absorbed in checking over his lake water.

"Oh, um, it's not really any different from now, if that's what you mean. I mean we just had a knack for it, right, Sherlock?" John called him in.

At least that's the impression Sherlock had given him. I mean, Sherlock would have said if there was something particularly strange about it, but then John remembered even Sherlock's shock when they first met. Also, who was he kidding? Sherlock wouldn't say a damned thing. _Jesus, _John thought.

Sherlock still didn't look up from the water, but made a noise of agreement.

Greg was smiling and Molly and Mike both looked shocked. All of their reactions, especially Sherlock's, were making John uncomfortable.

"Oh, god! That explains a lot!" Greg said, looking gleeful.

"What!" John said, absolutely lost for the first time a good while.

"It's just... you never mentioned you had an open bond," Molly said. "Though, well I guess it makes a lot of sense…"

Molly trailed off looking from John to Sherlock and back. There was that word again! So it wasn't just something Mycroft said. John was about to ask for an explanation when Sherlock made a distressed noise and John immediately turned to see what caused it. The brilliant Changeling, however, was already moving at double speed towards the dorm.

"The samples are settling, John! They'll be useless!"

John rolled his eyes, knowing such a comment could only mean he was expected to follow. He idly wondered if it was something he should be worried about that he also knew it mean he _would _follow. Oh, well. No matter.

John apologized and sped off after Sherlock, leaving his friends with odd expressions on their faces ranging from surprise to victorious amusement.

. . .

Sherlock's lake water experiment was about the residue left by the organisms within it on various surfaces—for example, human skin. This was how John could be found with his palm exposed under Sherlock's microscope about twenty minutes after they returned from Baker Forest. When he'd realized Sherlock wanted him to come with him he hadn't known that it was so he could be a manipulating variable. He did, however, tolerate it with a practiced grace.

While one had was under the microscope the other was propping up his head as he leaned on Sherlock's desk.

"Almost done?" John asked, actually the one getting bored this time.

"Stop moving," was Sherlock's only response.

John sighed before he remembered the question he'd meant to ask before Sherlock had run off.

"Sherlock, what's an open bond?" John asked, pausing but continued when Sherlock didn't immediately answer. "Your brother mentioned it but, well, I thought it was just more of his cryptic nonsense at the time."

That earned John a small smirk and a sideways glance from Sherlock before he went back to studying the tiny traces of lake water and organic life left on John's palm. _Uhg, _he should not think of it like that.

"An open bond," Sherlock began, "From a scientific view point, describes, basically, what we can do. Sometimes a pair of Changelings may have an inherent ability to communicate with each other while in shifted form, without any practice, as well as possessing a light empathetic link."

"Oh," John said. "That's it? Then why is everyone all out of sorts?"

That didn't seem like such a big deal at all. Not so different than what most mature Changelings did. Sherlock still didn't look up.

"Because it doesn't happen very often," he explained. "And because they are idiots."

John shouldn't have laughed, but he did.

"That's not very nice, Sherlock," John giggled.

"Oh, don't worry, nearly everyone is," he said dryly. "Stop moving."

John stilled but kept smiling.

"Even you?"

"On occasion," Sherlock said, and he smiled as he stared through the eye pieces of his microscope at the amoebas crawling around on John's hand.

John really wanted to wash that now…

On that day, all seemed good. John had absolutely no reason to believe Sherlock left out any information that John may have found invaluable, though, to be fair, at that time, John Watson and Sherlock Holmes often had very different opinions on what was valuable. Plus, it was difficult to see yourself as in the dark when the sun was shining so brightly and even the air was warm.


	9. Expectations

_**_**_******Author's Notes:**This will be a full length AU fic and will be posted up here as I finish and my lovely, amazing beta, **kathecello, **cleans them up! Warnings for the whole story: general adult themes, swearing, mentions of child abuse, violence and graphic sex. Rating has gone up.****_**_**_

_**___****Hello! Hope everyone is doing well! As always, your reviews light up my day and I hope to keep hearing from you. On another note, it has come to my attention that some of my readers are tumblr users and I have been throwing around the idea of opening a blog for Ashes. It would be open for submissions of art, fanmixes, etc and I would be putting my supplementary stuff up there as well as giving you guys to ask any questions you might have. Let me know if any of you are interested. =] Enjoy the chapter!****___  
><strong>_

_**How to Build a Heart out of Ashes: **__Expectations_

_by: Teumessian_

In what seemed like no time at all, the summer days had slipped away from them and before John even had a chance to get accustomed to the idea, he was standing in front of the mirror, slipping a tie with blue stripes around his neck. He'd become used to the red. It wasn't bad, the blue, but it was certainly different, a reminder of the fact that he was entering a whole new stage of his life.

Sherlock, however, was born to wear the colour, and since he'd so rarely worn his sixth form tie, it wasn't so strange to see him in the Uni-blue. John had noticed all this on the first day of autumn term, at the all school meeting, when even Sherlock would have been scolded for not wearing his full uniform. Though, he still in no way wore it every day, John noticed he did wear it far more than he'd worn the red tie. Knowing Sherlock, it was probably purely vanity the whole time.

John was taking a good course load autumn term, including a higher mathematics course and biochemistry. The latter he was lucky to share with Molly. It was also in that class that John met Sarah Sawyer. She was funny; she was pretty, and John was certainly interested. They could easily discuss school and had a lot in common there, as Sarah was a perspective medical student like John, Molly and Mike. Plus, she laughed and didn't look at John like he was crazy when he told her about each of Sherlock's recent social infractions or bursts of genius. Sarah was always interested.

John was very busy once school started. He now only worked one night a week at the clinic, but on top of that he had classes, coursework, revising, rugby and, as always, Sherlock's constant demand for his presence. He'd honestly given up on anything resembling a normal sleep schedule, inadvertently taking a leaf out of Sherlock's book. Though, a habit of forced insomnia hardly set him apart from many if not most University students. However, it didn't mean he had any interest in going up to Hawke Lake in the middle of the night.

"Sherlock, even if we keep a good pace it will take no less than four hours to get there and back," John complained when Sherlock asked him to do just such a thing. "I don't see why we can't just go right after I get out of class."

Sherlock sighed dramatically as they walked through a hallway in the math department.

"That would defeat the whole point! I told you, the entire goal of taking more samples is to see how the oxygen and other chemical levels fluctuate between night and day. Doing it any earlier than 2 am would be absolutely meaningless," he reiterated, rather viciously. "Weren't you listening?"

Honestly, John's attention had been a little divided by the fact that he had been texting Sarah throughout the conversation and he may have missed the logistics of this particular experiment.

"Ah, right," John amended, glancing down to see the blinking light on his phone that meant he had a new message. "Even so, Sherlock, its Tuesday. I have to sit an exam and rugby practice tomorrow."

Sherlock's face twisted with scorn and he was about to say some choice words to reflect these feelings but now he was faced with the top of John's head. He'd looked back down at his phone. John laughed once at the joke Sarah had sent him.

"Well—I—who are you texting?" Sherlock asked, irritated.

John once may have rolled his eyes at the double standard, as Sherlock never put down his phone, but he was so used to such things by now. He hit send on his response and looked back up.

"Sarah," John told him.

Sherlock's eyebrows dipped.

"Sarah who?" he asked, something odd in his voice.

John pocketed his phone.

"Sarah Sawyer," John said, a little confused as to why Sherlock was being so hostile. "She is in the same biochemistry class as Molly and I."

Sherlock's expression didn't soften and John realized it was going to be one of _those _days. The young Changeling sometimes would just be determined to sulk. Sherlock opened his mouth to say something that promised to be only unpleasant, but he was cut off.

"Hey, John, Sherlock!"

Both boys turned in the direction of the sound to see Greg coming over to them quickly.

"Greg," John greeted, cordially.

Sherlock just stared levelly, but nobody expected anything warmer. Greg looked absolutely overjoyed.

"What's up?" John asked.

Greg's face looked like it might split in half.

"I got the position," Greg said, excitedly. "You are currently speaking to the Captain of the Student Guard!"

"Congratulations!" John said wholeheartedly.

"You're very young to hold that position. Usually it's given to a third or fourth year university student," Sherlock said, with a notable lack of sarcasm that turned a fact into the Sherlockian equivalent of a complement.

Both John and Greg glanced up at him for some telling sign of falseness but he seemed genuine.

"Thank you, both!" Greg said, stuffing his hands in his pockets.

"So what does such a position offer in the way of perks?" John asked with a smile.

Greg laughed.

"Well besides looking fantastic on a resume, it also comes with a small paycheck," Greg said happily.

"You get keys, as well, right?" Sherlock asked. "To the buildings and things?"

John shot Sherlock a suspicious glance but Greg didn't look phased.

"You are correct, sir," Greg said, pulling a set of jingling keys out of his pocket and spun them around his pointer finger.

Greg looked so pleased, and so did Sherlock… John had no idea why but his instincts were flaring violently. A happy Sherlock on a sulk-day never boded well.

"So how do you plan to use your power first?" John asked.

Greg leaned back on his heels and stuck the keys back in his pocket.

"Oh, I thought I'd just strut about for a few days, maybe scare the pants off a few obnoxious secondary students," Greg shrugged, but with the splitting grin back on his face.

John laughed, knowing full well Greg would never abuse his power—harmfully at least. Then the bell rang, indicating the end of passing period.

"Well, congratulations once more," John said.

Greg was about to thank John when Sherlock did something that made his jaw drop. Sherlock stepped forward and clapped his hand down on Greg's shoulder.

"Indeed, congratulations. That's highly admirable," he said, oh so very seriously, pausing before turning down the hallway.

John was frozen in shock for a moment before lurching away with a hasty goodbye to Greg.

He caught up to Sherlock and looked over at him.

"What the hell was _that_?" John asked.

Sherlock's hands were in his pockets and he looked disturbingly smug.

"What?" he said, with a pathetic attempt at fabricated innocence.

John shook his head.

"No, stop that. You know exactly what I'm talking about," John said.

They turned around the corner into the main hallway, passing a number of posters advertising the Autumn Ball. Sherlock looked down at him, unhidden glee dancing in his eyes, just behind the composed mask.

"I have no idea what you mean, John," Sherlock said. "I am simply happy our friend has been chosen for a position with such pleasant perks."

Then John saw them as they were pulled from Sherlock's pocket and suddenly it all made sense—the complement, the gesture—because currently, a set of keys were spinning around Sherlock's index finger, a mock of their true owner's earlier motions.

"Oh, Sherlock, you didn't," John groaned.

Sherlock just kept smirking and sauntering down the crowded corridor.

"Why do I feel like this is going to be a reoccurring issue?" John said wearily.

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Don't be so melodramatic, John," Sherlock said, which John thought was a bit rich, coming from him. "Only when he is annoying."

John couldn't fight off the little smirk that worked itself onto his face at his friend's last comment.

"Sherlock, you always think Greg is annoying," John pointed out.

There was a quiet pause. Sherlock glanced sidelong at John; John glanced up at Sherlock. Their eyes met and they broke, slipping into matching fits of giggles. It was probably indecent. It was a good thing neither of them put a whole lot of stock in propriety.

. . .

**Dear god, please tell me that is not the sunrise.**

John and Sherlock stood atop a grassy knoll about a half kilometre into Baker Forest. The fur on their paws was soaked with morning dew and there was a light chill in the air that made their breath visible as thin clouds that disappeared in an instant. It was still early autumn but the leaves were already starting to morph into fire. The woods would soon be ablaze with them.

Sherlock turned his head towards the horizon and observed the glow spreading over it.

**It would appear so.** he said, casually.

A groaning whine leaked from between John's sharp teeth.

_**Christ, **_**I have to work at the clinic to night and I told Sarah I'd show her the gully.**

John started moving towards the Institute, harness shifting as he moved. The pouches attached to it contained the objects of tonight's excursion—some tubers and at least 12 separate species of mushrooms that Sherlock said he needed to use for an experiment on fungal growth. The fast approaching sun meant that that they'd now been out the entire night, and John wasn't going to have a lick of sleep to get him through the day. The _thought _of it alone exhausted him. Sherlock padded behind him, quiet as a ghost, but John was completely aware of his presence.

**You promised to take who where?**

John glanced back over his shoulder at his friend, whose irritation betrayed him in the form of a particularly vigorous swish of his tale. He'd been so tetchy since classes started. John was fairly sure he was only pretending to forget her name as well.

**Sarah—Sarah Sawyer. I promised to take her to the gully with the creek at the bottom, the one with those red flowers we found**.

Honestly, John thought it was rather smooth of him and was proud of himself for coming up with such a good idea. It was a gorgeous place and Sarah was sure to be impressed.

John thought he felt a rise in the irritation but Sherlock had been keeping a clamp on his thoughts recently.

**That's all the way past Tidwell Hill. It will take over an hour to get there with most shifts.** Sherlock spat, as if John was just being ridiculous.

The edge of the sun was visible now, bathing the forest in yellow and orange light, turning John's fur gold and Sherlock into a muted shadow.

**Her shift is a Caspian horse. We'll be fine.**

Sherlock said nothing until they broke through the tree line, preferring to sulk in silence. John might have to warn Mike to plan to study elsewhere today.

Only when they were pushing their way into their respective changing booths did Sherlock's voice reassert itself.

**Caspian pony.**

**What?** John asked as he pulled the quick release on the harness and with a shake it fell to the floor with a soft thump.

Sherlock's annoyed consciousness flickered wildly.

**Her shift is a Caspian **_**pony. **_**Caspian 'horses' are classified as ponies, and the term is inaccurate. Their true name is Caspian **_**pony.**_

Then the presence of his mind disappeared as it was hidden inside a human body. John sighed heavily and wondered what he did in a past life to deserve such an abrasive individual for a best friend.

. . .

"_John."_

It was dark and warm. It felt so nice.

"_John!_"

John started into wakefulness. When his eyes snapped open it wasn't dark at all and the fluorescent lights hurt his eyes. Nor was it comfortable. His shoulders were cramped from them lying on the desk at such an odd angle and he became acutely aware of the small amount of wetness that was plastering his face to the desk.

"Uhg…" he mumbled as he rose and wiped his face clean of drool.

Then he realized someone had been trying to wake him and that they were now watching him with a highly amused expression on her face.

"Ah, sorry, Sarah," John apologized, rubbing his hands forcefully over his eyes. "Sorry, I'm such a crap lab partner."

Sarah just smiled and John was glad they were working on a lab now so nobody besides Sarah noticed.

"Are you okay?" she asked. "This is the second time you've fallen asleep in class this week."

John arched his back stretching the cramped muscles, both from falling asleep on his desk and having his nose forced to the ground in search of mushrooms all night.

"I'm fine. Sherlock just had me up all night," he said mid-stretch, so it came out half as a groan.

At this Sarah gave an unusual giggle and when John looked for a reason, he found that a faint blush was dusting her cheeks.

"What?" he prompted, dropping his arms and checking his face for more drool.

She giggled once more and tucked her hair behind her ear. If John didn't know any better he'd say she looked embarrassed.

"Oh, nothing, you two are just the strangest, most adorable couple," Sarah explained.

What.

What?

_What!_

The statement made John's brain shut down for at least a whole two seconds before it roared frantically back to life.

"I'm sorry, but _what_? Sherlock and I—you thought—we're not—we were just collecting mushrooms!"

Oh god. If that didn't sound like a euphemism in his own ears… he took a deep breath and tried to sound less like an illiterate buffoon. Sarah looked a little startled.

"Look, what I mean was, we were out in the forest collecting mushrooms for an experiment Sherlock is doing on fungal growth… and we're… we're not a couple," John said wearily, coming to the horrible realization that the girl he'd been chatting up for weeks now thought he was gay—gay with Sherlock.

Sarah wasn't the first one, certainly not, hence John's weariness, but this was a particularly poignant blow for obvious reasons.

"Oh… oh!" Sarah said, blushing once again. "I'm sorry… I just thought… with the way you two are…"

She did look severely apologetic and it was in that moment that John fully committed to the decision to ask Sarah Sawyer to the Autumn Ball.

. . .

The Autumn Ball was a highly celebrated event at the Baker Institute, as it was the only formal ball that allowed all the students, except primary students, to attend as well the fact that it only occurred every other year. The girls all gossiped about it tirelessly, who was taking who, who wasn't taking who, and eagerly awaited the chance to dress up like a princess for a night. The boys debated about who and how to ask. While most weren't thrilled about dressing up, they all fostered the hope to get at least a good snogging at the end of the night. There were posters and decorations everywhere and the school was absolutely buzzing with excitement. Even John was getting caught up in the hype.

As the date of the Ball grew closer, and after he was sure that Sarah knew he was not sleeping with his best friend, John asked her to the dance. He asked her one day when they were finishing a lab. He'd been flirting and working for this for a good while now and was truly happy when she agreed to go with him—rather enthusiastically if he could say so himself.

John told Molly on their way to the dining hall after biochemistry.

"I asked Sarah to the Autumn Ball and she said yes!" John said victoriously.

Molly's eyes widened, and her mouth opened slightly. She looked as if she was going to say one thing but caught herself mid sentence. She didn't look nearly as happy for him as he thought she would.

"What? But what about—" she started. "I mean… who is Sherlock going with?"

John paused and looked down at her odd surprised expression. He wondered why she looked that way. She was in a class with Sarah and John. She had to have noticed him flirting with her. And yet... John stuffed his hands in his pockets, giving up on understanding.

"I… ah, highly doubt Sherlock is willing to go," John said, pursing his lips. "The one time I've brought it up with him he didn't even answer—well he just started firing off about the history of balls and the sociological functions of such occasions—then it got graphic and I sort of tuned it out…"

John looked down when Molly giggled, and he smiled himself, recalling the lightly disturbing event. Then she sobered and glanced up at John, thoughtful expression on his face.

"A little sad, though, don't you think?" she said. "I mean everyone's going to be there and… well, since you've been around it's even strange for him to be alone on a night like that."

John's chest tightened a little at that. He hated the thought of Sherlock alone. It brought up to many of the painful recollections and images that would never be forgotten in the mind of John Watson. Then what initially seemed like a brilliant idea popped into his head.

"I know! Why don't you ask him, Molly? I mean between the both of us maybe we can get him to go," John suggested.

Molly smiled shyly and cast he gaze towards the floor, shaking her head.

"Oh, I don't believe I could be much use there," she said. "Besides… um… Greg already asked me. We're going as friends."

John was surprised but extremely pleased. Greg had been his strongest ally in an operation they were calling "Operation Frightened Rabbit" that aimed to get their friend out of her shell. Obviously Greg was achieving far more than he was.

"That's fantastic! How did I miss this?"

Molly gave him a genuine smile at this.

"Oh, it only happened yesterday so…" she said with a little shrug of her shoulders.

John adjusted his bag when it slipped down his shoulder.

"Well," John said, hitching it up. "I'll just have to come up with another plan."

. . .

Sherlock would never have joined this class if criminals weren't so unimaginative. Both those who thought they had any intelligence at all or those who saw themselves as artists all seemed to share a love of Shakespeare. He decided it would be valuable to become intimately acquainted with his entire body of work as criminals, especially the passionate, seemed to draw upon his work shamelessly. If Sherlock was going to try and be poetic while murdering he would at least be original.

He fought off a smirk as he realized that was the kind of thought that got him highly disapproving looks from John. Not that John had been around enough to judge such thoughts lately, not with his current infatuation with that _girl_.

"If you scowl so much you are going to get wrinkles," a sultry voice chastised him from the seat to his right. "What are you thinking about?"

Irene Adler leaned forward in her seat, looking over at him with perfectly made up eyes.

"I am trying to deduce what John sees in Sarah," Sherlock said, brows still furrowed.

He was too preoccupied to sustain the past level of hostility he used to turn on Irene. These days he hadn't felt the urge to. It's not like she ever left as he intended when he flung the acid in her direction, and she was not quite as boring as any other silly Changeling child that wandered the halls of the Institute.

And that was the thing about Sarah. If she irritated him more, as Irene did, _incessantly, _he'd probably have had more respect for her, but she was just so _dull._ There was not a single interesting thing about her—average beauty, average intellect, average history, average shift… So the fact that something so boring could remove the presence of the one human being that Sherlock could stand to be around, had become _used_ to being around, absolutely irked him to no end. Now John had asked her to that bloody ball which promised her continued presence and distraction. Sherlock was not pleased.

"Is your boyfriend neglecting you?" Irene asked, lips pushed out in a sympathetic pout.

Sherlock scoffed and pressed his fingers into steeples.

"John is not my _boyfriend,_" Sherlock spat at the pedestrian suggestion.

Irene merely smiled and they both continued to ignore the professor who was sending them disapproving glares for not paying attention.

"Surely you understand his motivation," Irene sighed, leaning back. "It's really quite simple."

Sherlock shot her a sidelong glare and yes, he understood. It had never _really _been a mystery. He had just been rejecting the answer because he didn't like it.

"_Sex,_" Sherlock sneered around the word. "Ridiculous. Dull and idiotic in comparison to the exploits of the mind."

Irene just laughed softly and Sherlock looked over at her, and in his irritation his eyes locked onto a very faint smudge of lipstick below Irene's ear.

"Was she any good?" Sherlock asked archly.

Sherlock knew Irene didn't discriminate but she definitely preferred women. He knew this because she rarely let the men kiss her.

Currently, Irene's eyes widened for just a second before she tracked his gaze and raised her finger tips to her smooth neck to brush the marked spot. Then she smiled, looking more than pleased.

"Very good, Sherlock," she said. "You know, sometimes your brilliance makes me want to take you right here on the desks. I would have you begging for mercy."

A girl with curly red hair glanced back with a concerned expression on her face but neither clever Changeling paid her any mind.

"I don't beg," Sherlock said, voice low.

She leaned forward again.

"Is that a challenge, Sherlock?" she purred.

Sherlock snorted and turned away.

"Hardly," he said, leaning his cheek into his palm.

"Sherlock, go to the ball with me," Irene said.

It was a request he'd heard countless times.

_Sherlock, that tie looks nice on you; go to the ball with me._

_Sherlock, how was your weekend; go to the ball with me._

_Sherlock, I heard you caught the kids putting super glue in the school locks; go to the ball with me._

Always, Sherlock had ignored her. He was not interested. However, today something changed. A response strummed from his vocal chords and he would go to his grave before he admitted it was said with the image of John Watson dancing with Sarah Sawyer in his mind.

"Fine."

. . .

Molly was not present at lunch so naturally the all male company shifted their conversation accordingly. Greg was currently congratulating John on his success at asking Sarah to the ball and from there it had continued with ball related conversation. Honestly, it was getting so close that people were talking of little else.

"And you!" John tried to shift the focus off himself, as it was embarrassing and Sherlock was glaring at him murderously—probably for subjecting him to such an annoyingly loud and boring conversation. "I heard you and Molly are going together."

Greg's face split into another wide grin and he leaned back in his seat.

"Well, someone has to show that girl how to loosen up and have a good time," Greg said.

"Good on you, mate," Mike offered.

"What about you? Asked anyone?" Greg said to Mike who chuckled and nodded.

"Yup! Suzie from psychology. Got her a whole bunch of flowers but they were all wilted before I could even get them to her," Mike chortled.

Both John and Greg burst out laughing.

"Mike, you're such a clod!" Greg laughed.

"Hey, she said yes! That's what counts!" Mike defended.

John was still giggling when Greg turned towards Sherlock.

"What about you? Any pretty ladies catch your eye or are dances not in your repertoire?" Greg asked.

Oh, not good. Oh, poor choice. John braced himself for the inevitable tide of condescension that was surely coming their way.

But none came. Sherlock merely continued to cut his food into reasonably sized bites as he answered.

"I'm going with Irene Adler."

Mike dropped his fork onto the floor, and in Greg's prone position he almost fell out of his seat, having to flail his arms and catch the edge of the table to stop his fall. John's jaw just dropped and he stared, open mouthed, at his antisocial friend, who was apparently taking the most famous, or infamous, woman to walk the halls of the Baker Institute in what was probably its entire history to the Autumn Ball.


	10. Sparks

_**_**_**_******Author's Notes:**This will be a full length AU fic and will be posted up here as I finish and my lovely, amazing beta, **kathecello, **cleans them up! Warnings for the whole story: general adult themes, swearing, mentions of child abuse, violence and graphic sex. Rating has gone up.****_**_**_**_

_**_**_**_****So big news this chapter! The How to Build a Heart out of Ashes blog is now up and running with a few nice posts up already. Including the first of three fanmixes and a very lovely piece of fanart. I hope all of you have some fun with it! The url (if you take out the spaces) is "heartoutofashes . tumblr . com . Thank you all SO much for your reviews. Each one of you brighten my day =]  
>PS- Why does ff . net always have to go down when I am trying to post? Sorry for the delay and possible multiple alerts!<br>****_**_**_**_

_**How to Build a Heart out of Ashes: **__Sparks_

_by: Teumessian_

For a dance that was being held in a gymnasium, the student council and staff had really outdone themselves. The walls were covered in black and grey draperies. Gorgeous arrangements of silver were scattered all about the room. A large buffet table sat along one wall; platters of sweets and snacks sat on a black table top. The DJ and his tables were perched on a raised platform at the back of the gym. There were already a number of couples on the dance floor. A few sparkling disco balls, that would most likely be put to full use later in the night when they turned down the lights, hung from the ceiling. There was obviously a large range of ages in the attending students. There were numerous awkward secondary school couples. Groups of girls, dateless but seemingly enjoying themselves all the same, twittered about on the edge of the dance floor. Relaxed university couples seemed to be taking pleasure in the scene and the food and there were even a few blokes who decided to go stag leaning against the far wall, apparently trying to influence the DJ.

Having arrived together only a few minutes previously, John Watson stood with his friends next to a pillar close to the entrance of the gym. He wore a simple black suit with very faint pinstripes that he had bought for the wedding of his uncle last winter. Harry had made fun of him for accidentally getting pinstripes but his measurements had already been taken for the suit and the thought of going through the process again had made him balk. In the end they looked rather good on him anyway, he thought, and the suit contrasted nicely with the pale blue shirt he was wearing to match Sarah's periwinkle dress. With the addition of a simple charcoal grey tie and a touch of product in his hair, for once John actually felt he did a fine job of making himself more than presentable.

Molly looked lovely in a yellow satin dress, sweetheart neckline and floral stitching climbing up from the hem. John was not the only one to do a double take at 'unassuming' Molly Hooper that evening. Greg was being a great date and looked rather dashing himself. Mike was accompanied by a sweet girl with curly red hair and dimples, Suzie from his psychology lecture.

John scanned the crowd and regularly glanced over at the wide open doors and the constant influx of arriving couples. Sarah glanced up at him.

"Sherlock is coming separately, right?" she asked.

"Yeah, with that Adler woman," John murmured.

If he hadn't been glancing at the door once more he would have seen the little smile pass over Sarah's face at his phrasing.

Even before a few weeks ago when Sherlock announced her as his date, John had heard about Irene Adler. There were very, very few who hadn't, but for whatever reason the rumours and school legends seemed to be reaching John at a surprising rate in the recent days. He had no idea how much of it was true, but if one tenth of the stories were true then Irene Adler was a more fearsome woman than any John had, or probably ever would, meet. There was a reason she was called 'the Vixen' in the whispers of story tellers, and her fox shift was not the biggest reason.

He'd known that Sherlock and Irene had an odd sort of relationship. It wasn't exactly a friendship. As far as John could tell, Sherlock only ever seemed irritated by her presence but he had to admit Sherlock didn't dismiss her like he did to everyone else, besides John himself at least. From what he'd heard, Irene had been an extremely young Change herself. She'd been at the Institute since she was seven and since she was a year older than Sherlock, that meant she'd been at the Institute almost as long as Sherlock had. Apparently even Sherlock could be won over to some degree with persistence…

John was watching a couple of sixth formers compete to see how many biscuits they could fit in their mouths at one time, so he wasn't looking at the door when the conversation of his friends trailed to a stop. John glanced at them to see them all staring in the same direction. Sarah followed their gaze first.

"Oh… wow…" she breathed, and John's head twisted towards the door.

Then he had to admit some of his own breath slipped through his lips because Sherlock Holmes and Irene Adler had arrived and that was certainly a sight to see.

Irene was encased in a silken, purple, formfitting number with an asymmetrical hem and strappy black heels that could easily put your eye out. She wore a beaded necklace that looked like lace from across the room, and even from there, John could see her eyes were painted into wickedness. She looked more beautiful and dangerous than anyone John had seen in his short life. The Vixen, indeed.

Then there was Sherlock, and here was the strange part, he wasn't outshone by her in the slightest. He not only was recognizable but he was in balance with her, in his tailored black suit, beautifully cut, buttons gleaming and wrapped in a silk shirt that matched the shade of Irene's dress perfectly, his glossy curls paired with the lace curling around her neck and chest.

Irene was smiling smoothly and Sherlock looked like ice and with a strange hot swoop in John's stomach he realized they were perfect—so goddamn perfect. Where was his dorky, socially inept best friend? Where was Sherlock, hands covered in vegetation in the name of science, smiling at John's praise? But no this was truly Sherlock, in every way. Sherlock perfected…

Then eyes found him, steel grey and piercing. They held for a moment across the crowd but then for some reason John found himself looking away, insides doing strange, almost painful things. What the hell? Sarah glanced up at him.

"Do you want to dance now? The floor is filling out," she nodded towards the rapidly filling dance floor.

John swallowed and forced a smile.

"Yeah, sounds great," he said.

. . .

Irene had stopped by earlier that evening to drop off the shirt she'd wanted him to wear. It was the same colour as a shirt he already owned, he pointed out, but Irene had said that this material was better, so he'd agreed to wear it if only to get her to leave him alone. The woman had commented on his particularly foul mood today, but he'd elected not to indulge her with a response. Sherlock was lucky to have the suit already, a relic from the few birthday and garden parties that he had been convinced—blackmailed—into attending over the past few years. It fit him well and he did like it in all honesty, but today he had just been feeling a distinct lack of motivation to put any effort into the evening at all. He had certainly second guessed the reasons why he'd agreed to go in the first place, if he could even put a finger on what those reasons were. But then the image of John twirling around a pretty blonde girl would enter his mind unannounced and by coincidence the urge to attend the silly school function returned as well.

So this was how Sherlock could be found leaning against the far wall of the decorated school gymnasium, behind the speakers so his eardrums weren't permanently destroyed. Irene leaned in beside him.

"Come now, Sherlock," she purred. "What have I told you about scowling?"

Sherlock just scoffed and rolled his eyes, continuing to watch the pulsing crowd, trying to convince himself he could learn something here but there was nothing he didn't already know.

Except for a brief greeting in passing, Sherlock hadn't talked to John. He had however caught glimpses of him dancing with Sarah in the crowd. He seemed to be having a fine time. Sherlock even saw him laughing as he danced a song with Molly. It was sickeningly mundane.

It was so loud, voices, bad music and incessant laughter clanging against his mind. He wished he was out in the forest, in the quiet shadows, only one voice ever reaching him there.

A hand slipping into his broke his focus on his fantasy and his fingers spasmed in surprise and his head snapped down.

"What are you doing?" he asked, annoyed, as Irene started to pull him towards the chaos.

Irene sent him a half lidded glance over her shoulder.

"It's a _dance,_ Sherlock. I hardly asked you here for enlightening conversation," she chastised teasingly, making Sherlock bristle.

But then the crowd parted a bit and Sherlock saw John spinning Sarah around in a cheesy twirl that made him want to be sick and he found himself snaking his arm around Irene's curved waist. Then they danced.

Sherlock had no particular feelings positively or negatively regarding dancing but he was a great mimic and so some relaxed easy form of dancing was easy, and he mostly ignored the more ridiculous and flamboyant displays put on by his fellow students. Irene was mostly leading anyway so it was easy to slip back into the quieter place in his mind.

Sherlock wasn't sure how long this had been going on when the attention light flickered on in his brain and he immediately began to look for what had set it off. Two and a half seconds later he figured it out. It was the small boy standing pointedly next to the open doors. Primary students weren't allowed at the ball, plus Sherlock not only recognized the boy but he was staring straight at him. With his next heart's beat, a chemical dose known as excitement flooded his body. Oh, yes, this could only mean one thing.

Irene had noticed the shift in him and was watching Sherlock closely now, especially at the gleeful smile that had broken onto his face and then he leaned in close to whisper in her ear.

"I apologize but it seems I am going to be otherwise engaged for the rest of the night."

. . .

John forced himself to at least seem like he was having fun. Despite his old friends' jokes, John's past luck with women had not been because he simply 'had game.' Even if deep down he did really hope to get a glimpse of their knickers at some point, John was raised to treat women properly. So even though John was having far less fun than he expected, he did his best to make sure Sarah and his friends got the most out of the night, and he had genuinely enjoyed dancing with both Sarah and Molly, who he and Greg seemed to be reaching some success in getting her to cut loose.

The DJ had started a slow dance and currently Sarah's arms were wrapped completely around his neck, his around her lower back. They were very close as they swayed back and forth. This should have made John feel elated. On another night, in his old life, he would have taken this as a positive sign that this night could end in some very satisfying snogging if he played his cards right, but he would be damned if there wasn't something wrong with the way Sherlock Holmes swayed with an absolutely gorgeous, highly experienced woman plastered all up his front.

I mean how did she even do that? It had to be impossible to wrap yourself so completely around someone, outside of the bedroom at least. That brought on a whole wave of related images that turned John's cheeks pink. He wasn't so inexperienced himself but he was _not _thinking about Sherlock in Irene Adler's bed. His brain couldn't handle it.

That was it! That had to be why it was bothering him so much. This wasn't Sherlock. It just didn't fit. Irene would just be using Sherlock and that was not tolerable. Not with the knowledge of Sherlock's past firmly resident in John's mind. In his head John carefully labelled these facts as 'reasons' and _not _justifications for his feelings as he decidedly spun Sarah and himself so his back was to the figures he couldn't divert his attention from.

After a long stretch of dancing John gave in and craned his head to catch sight of Sherlock again, to make sure Irene wasn't taking advantage of him of course. He caught sight of the Vixen, leaning against the wall with a glass of punch in her hand, but there was no sight of Sherlock. Strange. He started to grow concerned but then a popular song came on and the whole group's excitement rose palpably. Greg whooped and pulled Molly into a twirl and Mike and Suzie were doing some odd dance that apparently went with the song. John couldn't help but laugh. Only when the song was almost over did John become aware of Sherlock's presence. This was because the Changeling was right behind him.

"John!" a voice cut through the music and John spun around to see his best friend not a metre away.

His eyes were crackling with excitement. John's concern flared again.

"What is it, Sherlock? Everything okay?" John said, voice almost drowned out in the thudding bass of the pop song.

"It's happened again—maybe! We have to go _now_," Sherlock said, visibly rocking onto is toes in eagerness.

His friends were watching now.

"What?" John asked, confused as usual.

Sherlock looked highly impatient and his hands fluttered around.

"Another Wandering, John! Come on!"

John was still lost and it was hard to explain anything in the din.

"What?" John asked and Sherlock's patience visibly expired.

"Oh, I'll just explain on the way! Come _on_!"

Then Sherlock reached forward and grabbed his wrist with long, thin fingers and began to pull him towards the exit.

"Wh-what are you doing? Wait—Sherlock!"

John protested but Sherlock ignored him and didn't let go. He only managed one glance back at his friends who, unlike John, didn't even look that surprised at all.

A moment later Molly came up next to Sarah.  
>"I'm sorry," she apologized for Sarah's absent date.<p>

Sarah just laughed and shrugged.

"It's okay. Who is surprised? Just out of curiosity, though… I know you're friends with them, do you know what… is up with those two?" she asked, not sure how to phrase the question but Molly knew exactly what she was asking.

"I'm not really sure, exactly. Nobody really is, them probably least of all, but… they do have an open bond," Molly said, explaining at least a part of it.

Sarah's head snapped around at Molly's last words, hair brushing against her bare shoulders.

"You're joking," she said, eyes wide.

Molly just smiled softly and shook her head. Sarah giggled.

"Well, I had even less of a chance than I thought," Sarah laughed. "How do you compete with that?"

The look on Molly's face said she understood the feeling perfectly.

With a sigh and a smile Sarah stretched her neck and glanced over at Molly.

"Well, the night's not over yet, is it?" Sarah said, nodding towards the moving bodies.

At that Molly's smile returned as well.

"Oh, I hope not."

Across the dance, another young woman watched the exchange and departure of Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. Once they were surely gone a vulpine smile bloomed on her face. This night hadn't gone exactly as it had been planned but oh, it had gone somewhere and that was something—something interesting and surely important. With graceful, polished fingers, Irene Adler extracted her phone from her recovered clutch, and then she began to send a text.

. . .

"Seriously, Sherlock, what is going on?" John asked as Sherlock led them into the hallway.

"Another student has Wandered. If there's something strange about this one I want to find it _before_ the evidence disappears," Sherlock said as they approached a small shape at the end of the hallway. "John give me the tenner in your pocket."

Would John ever be able to keep up with this boy? They came to a stop in front of the small shape, which turned out to be a primary student. He didn't look older than nine years of age.

"I—ah," John said eloquently as Sherlock stuck out his hand demandingly.

He reached into the pocket he'd stuffed a few notes into, just in case, before he'd left his room that evening. He didn't question how Sherlock knew it was there, but that was not very high on his list of priorities at the moment. He handed Sherlock the tenner and he immediately tucked it into the waiting hands of the little boy who immediately scampered off. Then Sherlock began to lead them in the opposite direction.

"Okay, still lost," John said irritably. The Changeling was impossible when he was distracted like this. "For the stupid people in the room, would you please explain what going on—preferably from the beginning and who was that boy?"

Sherlock sighed heavily as they turned around another corner.

"Lucy Heart, John! Or had you forgotten?" he said.

John did remember Lucy Heart, the girl that had Wandered last spring, the girl who Sherlock believed hadn't wandered at all.

"I remember," John confirmed.

"Well, when nobody took the facts into any consideration last time I realized I would need more evidence, so I set up for the possibility of the event reoccurring. That boy was Adam Knight, one of the many primary students who gather information for me. I instructed them to alert me the moment they heard about a Wandering, so I could investigate its validity."

John's eyebrows furrowed and he looked up at Sherlock.

"Wait, you have _primary _students collecting information for you?"

Sherlock smirked back at him.

"Oh, John, you would be shocked with how much is said around children under the misguided belief in their lack of understanding or ability to retain useful information, especially under the incentive of sufficient money to buy enough sweets to get sick on."

John thought that over for a moment, twin footsteps echoing loudly in the dark corridor.

"Okay," he acquiesced. "So someone has Wandered again?"

Sherlock nodded sharply.

"Justin Hara; disappeared this morning. He was supposed to attend a pre-ball function but he never showed up. The staff found his things in a Changing booth and they found no sign of him in their sweep of Baker Forest. He was a komodo dragon shift… _neat_, yeah?"

John's eyebrows rose and he understood Sherlock's interest. Changelings were most commonly mammal shifts, followed closely by avian shifts, then marsupials, then, very rarely, reptiles. For whatever reason, there were no fish or bug shifts. Some scientists said they were perhaps too different from humans to be one with them, but either way a reptile shift was unique and to be such a rare species on top of that made it doubly so.

"Okay, makes sense," John said, finally catching up. "So where are we going?"

John's voice was conversational and some part of him was wondering why he wasn't more upset that Sherlock had pulled him out of the middle of the dance, making him leave Sarah dateless.

"If we want to find anything out of the ordinary we have to do so before it disappears. We are going to check his changing booth."

About twenty minutes later, John had shed both his fancy clothes as well as his human skin and was nose to the earth in front of the booth were Justin Hara had made his last shift. Sherlock was inside the booth, mouth open and drawing in air. John knew he did this when he was trying smell something faint.

**Find anything?** John asked.

_Irritation. _**All I can really smell is the human in here, from when they collected his things. My sense of smell isn't as good as yours.** Sherlock said begrudgingly, which made John smile inwardly. **Is there anything out there?**

John sat back and scratched his ear.

**Not that I can smell. It rained this afternoon, though. Even if there was anything it would probably be washed away by now.**

_Disappointment. _**Come try in here.** Sherlock instructed and padded out onto the grass to give him room.

They'd pushed back the curtain so it was easy for John to cross into the sheltered room. He glued his nose to the ground and started sniffing. Sherlock was right, the smell was indeed primarily human, but John could also smell more, many faint Changing scents, most over a day old. Then he picked out an odd scent—reptilian. That must have been Justin's, but there was one other, fresher, scent. It was faint but surely a mammalian smell—not human. He told all of this to Sherlock, who was watching, patiently for him, from the grass.

At first the panther said nothing, and John was about to ask when Sherlock stood.

**Fancy a run?** he finally asked simply.

John's ears twitched then he rolled his shoulders. He'd already ruined the evening and he didn't feel like going back to the dance anyway—in fact, until that moment he'd actually sort of forgotten about it.

**Sounds good.** John said, slinking after the dark shape, knowing it was pointless to try and get answers out of Sherlock if he wasn't offering them.

**Don't speak. I need to think.** was all Sherlock said as they passed the tree line.

John rolled his eyes but he did stay silent.

. . .

The next night John received a text requesting his presence in Baker Hall. He took one look at his unfinished maths coursework and stood with a sigh, shutting off his desk lamp. A few minutes later found John standing with his hands stuffed into his coat pockets in front of the huge black doors of Baker Grand Hall. At this hour the door should have been locked but John was rather unsurprised when the door swung open on his first attempt.

Once inside he looked around the gloom, even in the darkness John quickly picked out the shadow standing close to the far corridor, staring at the wall. John approached and when he got close enough to speak quietly and be heard, he greeted Sherlock.

"How did you get in here?" John asked.

Sherlock didn't look away from the wall—the Wanderer's Wall. He just held up a set of keys that jingled louder than John liked.

"Jesus, Sherlock, are those Greg's?" John said, grievously.

Sherlock just nodded and leaned forward to study the newest addition to the wall, Justin Hara. His purple marker hung below his pictures. So he'd been a secondary student.

John mentally promised himself he'd have Greg's keys back to him by morning and dismissed his concern for later.

"So why did you need me to join you in this break in?" John asked.

"I need you to shift," Sherlock said simply.

John said nothing. Then Sherlock's words sunk in.

"In here? No—why?"

Sherlock glared at him over his shoulder.

"Because, John, this is _actually _Justin's marker, not a replacement. Wear is consisted with use on the outside, and the inside shows it was worn by something with scaled skin."

John pursed his lips, trying to catch up, arms crossed over his chest.

"So… this was a normal Wandering? Why do I have to shift?"

Sherlock made a dismissive motion with his hand.

"Maybe—or maybe someone knew a missing marker would be noticed this time as it was last time," Sherlock hissed at John's slowness. "I already shifted and tried gleaning something from the smell but again, I can't get anything but human off of it. I need you to check."

"But—but I'd have to…"

John's ears were red and he was acutely aware of their presence in a place that normally saw hundreds of bodies passing through it constantly, not at all private. Sherlock shot him another despairing glance.

"I'll face the wall to protect your _fragile decency_. Just do it," Sherlock said.

John only hesitated a moment more before sighing heavily and turning around.

"Fine," he said.

He quickly undressed; shooting a glance over his shoulder to make sure Sherlock was still firmly facing the wall before removing his pants. He didn't know why he was being such a prude. It's not like he hadn't undressed in front of blokes in locker rooms for years.

Once he was clothed in thick blonde fur he relaxed. He turned and padded towards Sherlock as well as Justin's memorial. When he was close, he bumped his muzzle against Sherlock's leg, telling him to move.

This was the first time they'd been like this, John shifted and Sherlock human, but just as it hadn't really bothered him on the night Sherlock slip-shifted, the dynamic didn't really change, nor was communication very hindered. It seemed when it came to them that nothing was dependent on exactly how much hair, or how many feet, claws or tails they had.

Once he was centred, John reared back, blunt nails clicking loudly against the wall as he propped himself up with his paws. From this position he could press his nose to the leather marker. Almost immediately, Sherlock spoke.

"What do you smell? Focus on the—"

Sherlock cut off when John narrowed his eyes in the young genius's direction.

_Calm down, I'm working on it, _the glance easily conveyed.

John went back to the marker and inhaled. The strongest scent was definitely reptile this time. This was obviously Justin Hara's marker. The next most prominent were the humans who had handled it after he Wandered. John was about to conclude his assessment but then he realized there was another scent. He pulled away to clear his nasal cavity and began snuffling over the entirety of the purple leather. He finally figured it out when he passed over a spot where the scent was stronger. It was the same mammalian scent he'd encountered in the changing booth.

With a curious cock of his head, John dropped back down to the tiled floor.

"What is it?" Sherlock asked, curiosity eating him alive as it was obvious to him that John had found something.

John flicked his muzzle towards the wall and walked towards his clothes. Sherlock complied and turned towards the wall. By the time John was clothed, Sherlock was bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet.

"It's the same as the booth," John said and Sherlock whipped around, striding over to him, encroaching on personal space.

"How _exactly _do you mean? It is vitally important, John," Sherlock said, eyes painfully intense as he leaned over John, whose eyebrows furrowed in concentration.

"Well, it's definitely Hara's marker. It smells mostly like the people who retrieved it, but there's that same faint non-human mammal smell there, too. Mostly on the one side," John explained, indicating the top left side.

Sherlock spun away in an instant, arms flying up.

"Brilliant!" he exulted, spinning in a full circle.

John was officially lost but he was fairly sure it wasn't socially acceptable to be this excited about whatever it was.

"What? What does it mean, Sherlock?"

Sherlock turned and grabbed both John's shoulders, looking straight into his eyes. John was a little overwhelmed by the excited light in his eyes.

"It _means_, John, that something carried that marker back from the forest. It means he was wearing it! He was wearinghis marker when it happened, John! Something Wanderers never do! Just the same as Lucy Heart. But they—it—knows the marker was missed last time so they brought it back!"

John shook his head and shut his eyes for a moment so he could think properly.

"Wait—wearing it when _what _happened?" he asked.

Sherlock smiled like a mad man.

"When he was _taken_, John. I don't know how, and I don't know why, but someone took Lucy Heart and Justin Hara and tried to make them look like Wanderings. And if I'm right, they won't be the last."


	11. Rabbithole

_**_**_**_**_******Author's Notes:**This will be a full length AU fic and will be posted up here as I finish and my lovely, amazing beta, **kathecello, **cleans them up! Warnings for the whole story: general adult themes, swearing, mentions of child abuse, drug use/abuse, graphic sex, and violence. Rating has gone up.****_**_**_**_**_

_**_**_**_**_****As always blown away by the positive reactions I am getting from this story. You are all amazing. There is some new fanart up on the blog for those interested (heartoutofashes . tumblr . com). I hope to keep hearing from you as your reviews bring me so much joy, and I hope you enjoy the new chapter!  
><strong>**_**_**_**_**_

_**How to Build a Heart out of Ashes: **__Rabbit-hole_

_by Teumessian_

John had expected Sherlock to react much in the same way as he had when Lucy Heart disappeared, and this time he thought the staff would believe him. John knew _he _had no doubts in Sherlock's deductions; he'd smelled the evidence with his own nose and he'd been prepared to testify in Sherlock's defence this time, instead of just apologising for his insolence.

But the next morning John's presence was not called upon and he started to worry Sherlock had gone without him, and if that was true his friend may not have been a student at the Baker Institute by the end of the day. No matter how many times John told Sherlock that you can't call the headmaster an 'idiotic, blind oaf' it never seemed to get through the alleged genius's thick skull. However, when John rapped his knuckles in his characteristic three knocks against Sherlock's door, a familiar low voice sounded from within. When he opened the door, John saw an unexpected sight, but honestly the unexpected _was _expected with Sherlock.

The Changeling sat in the middle of the floor with enough open files scattered about him to consume the entirety of the floor. All of the other experiments had been banished to his desk or the square metre space to its left. The bed was also mostly covered in stacks of yet more files. Sherlock's laptop was open to his right and his mobile was in reach. He glanced up at John but made no other greeting. He looked from his open laptop, to a file, and back.

"I thought you'd be under the feet of any professor who'd listen to you by now," John said, trying to read the contents of the file closest to him. "What's all this?"

"I am not going to the staff this time. It was a mistake to even bother in the first place," Sherlock said, without looking up, pulling a file from near the foot of the bed into the place of the one in front of him. "And these are the files of every student Wandering in the past ten years."

John's eyebrows rose, focusing on the first part.

"You aren't going to the faculty? Why not?" John asked. "Don't they need to know about the fact that students are being taken?"

Sherlock quickly typed something before answering.

"It wouldn't do any good. _If _they believed me, which they probably won't because they are idiots, they could only go to the police. There would be far too much incompetence getting in my way if that were to happen. The lowest department with the specialised ability to handle a case so centred around Changelings is Scotland Yard and I don't have enough data or evidence to get them to pay any attention to the case whatsoever. No, I will work this out…" Sherlock trailed off, eyes narrowing the result on his screen.

John pressed his lips together in silence for a moment, processing. Someone had to figure this out and stop it, that John knew, and at his age and with his upbringing his instinct was to tell someone who could _do _something about it—the police, the professors—but Sherlock was right. At this point those who _could _do anything would most likely laugh at a couple of teenagers with a handful of circumstantial evidence. And no matter how much John teased Sherlock on a daily basis; he truly believed that if anyone could figure this out it was his arrogant, genius of a best friend.

So instead of scolding, John merely nodded once. Sherlock noticed and gave him a long glance before going back to his work, something like approval in his eyes. John would help however he could.

"So, how did you get all these? Oh, and why?" John asked, realizing there was a more important question to ask.

Sherlock retrieved another file.

"I had Mycroft send them," he said.

John snickered.

"What did you have to pay for _that _little favour?" John asked, having learned a lot more about Mycroft Holmes in the past months.

Mycroft would never let an opportunity to get something from his younger brother pass him by. John knew his assessment was correct when Sherlock cast him a narrow eyed glare over the top of his laptop.

"I have to attend Mummy's dinner party next month…" he said, with a disgusted curl of his lips.

John laughed and picked up the biochemistry textbook he'd left in Sherlock's room yesterday, which had been pushed into the corner of the room since then to make room for Sherlock's new project.

"And you need all these files to…?" John prompted once more as he began to carefully pick a path towards Sherlock's bed.

"I need to know if this has ever happened before…" Sherlock said.

John's head turned toward his friend in surprise.

"What? False Wanderings? You think that's a possibility?" John asked as he moved one stack of files to create a John-sized space to sit against Sherlock's head board.

Sherlock nodded and closed one file, opening another. John let that sink in before pushing himself onto the soft duvet, careful not to disturb the precarious stacks.

"Anything I can do to help?" John asked as he settled back.

"No…" Sherlock said simply, staring into the laptop screen.

"Alright," John said, unphased, knowing Sherlock wouldn't hesitate to call upon him when he was needed, and then he opened his biochemistry text.

. . .

John was no longer seeing Sarah. They still sat together in biochem, with Molly, but with how busy he was... and the fact that Sherlock's growing focus on the disappearance of Lucy Heart and Justin Hara was making him more neglectful of basic human needs than ever just made it worse. John never thought he would have to try so hard to keep another human being from accidentally starving to death.

Sherlock's frustration was fed by the fact that progress was slow with the files. Wanderings were such an accepted and culturally significant part of Changeling life that the documentation on them was weak. The events were supposed to be treated with reverence, not scrutiny. John knew this and how much it infuriated Sherlock because he had been subjected to more than one rant on the subject. He'd woken up to one just the other day. He really didn't know how Sherlock kept getting into his room when it was locked.

John didn't realize how fast approaching Winter Term was until one morning, towards the end of autumn. He was eating breakfast alone before his first lecture, when Mike entered the dining hall and sat down across from him. He looked worn far too thin, thick bags under bloodshot eyes.

"Morning, Mike," John greeted, and Mike nodded in return. "You okay? You look like hell."

Mike rubbed his eyes and then the back of his head, looking a little awkward.

"Umm, yeah. Actually, I wanted to talk to you about just that," he said, leaning lightly from side to side.

John cocked his head to the side and set down his tea.

"What?" John asked, utterly confused.

Mike looked like he was struggling with an internal conflict, fingers drumming uneasily on the table.

"Please, dear god, switch rooms with me when Winter Term starts!" Mike blurted suddenly. "Look I know it's a lot to ask and I don't want you to feel obliged to say yes but you're with Sherlock constantly anyway and you seem to possess some magical ability to put up with him but I just can't do it anymore!"

He finished, going a little limp. John understood now. Mike looked like hell because he was only getting as much sleep as Sherlock, which was not enough for any normal human being to survive on. No wonder Mike seemed like he was about to have a psychotic breakdown.

"Sure, I'll switch with you," John said with a light chuckle.

Mike looked abashed.

"Really?" he said, eyes wide.

Honestly, John knew it probably wouldn't be good for his sleep schedule either but he highly doubted the hallway had ever made a difference in Sherlock's infringements upon his time. Even so, John himself was a little surprised at the fact that the idea barely even seemed a little daunting. All he currently thought was that if he moved he could just yell at Sherlock through the wall to get him to go to sleep instead of having to walk down the hall.

John shrugged.

"I've developed enough of a tolerance for his violin," John said, cutting a bite sized piece off the breakfast sausage on his plate.

Plus, if John had an exam or anything else highly important to do on a given day he had no qualms about confiscating the young Changeling's bow altogether the night prior. Sherlock had yet to figure out a way to make the little instrument produce a loud enough sound to keep anyone up without it thus far.

It would be fine—good, John thought.

For Mike's part, he looked like he was about to dissolve into relieved sobs.

"Oh, _god,_ mate, you have no idea how much I owe you for this," he said, going nearly boneless in his seat. "Thank you so much."

John laughed again, taking a sip of his tea.

"No problem, mate," he chuckled, hoping he wouldn't regret this.

. . .

Just a few weeks later John's days changed once more as Winter Term brought new classes as well as a new room. John still wasn't sure how Sherlock felt about him taking Mike's old room. When John told him, Sherlock had been working on the new wall dedicated to the Wanderers' Case. He had said nothing but he did pause to look at John with narrowed eyes, then over to the adjacent room, before a little smirk bloomed on his lips and he went back to his work. John forced back the concern that said Sherlock was pleased with this development and that was a very bad sign for him.

This term John was taking two courses that would never be seen outside of an Institute.

The first was a required course named "Changelings: An Introduction and History." By the students at Baker it was dubbed, with varying levels of affection, simply "Intro." Every Changeling to come through the Institute was required to take this course their first Winter Term. They only had it once a year to make sure there were enough new Changelings to fill a class. This was unfortunate for John for two reasons. First, he was a spring shift. The course was supposed to be taken as a way to inform new students about facts of Changeling life that they might find useful. Having been at the Institute for over seven months now meant that most of this was already common knowledge to John. The other aspect of the course, the history, would have made the class worth taking in John's opinion, if it wasn't so completely and totally outweighed by the other factor that severely reduced John's enthusiasm for the course. Since it was the first Winter Term of _any _new Institute Changeling this meant John would be in a class with children, no older than fifteen and possibly as young as eight.

It was as bad as John expected. He received no shortage of interested looks when he first entered the room. They probably thought he had come to discuss something with Professor Highland, who also taught most of the university level Changeling Studies courses, but instead he sat at a desk in the very back row of the classroom and tried to ignore the heads twisting in his direction. He had been tempted to remove the blue striped tie that marked him as university student but that in itself would have tagged him as a much older student. Besides, there was no way anyone was going to mistake him for a secondary student for one minute… even if a few of them _were _taller than John. God damn his vertically challenged genes.

The other class John was taking was far more enjoyable, as well as probably the strangest course John ever had or ever would take. The class was a course on shift-speech. It was only offered to university students and most students who took it radically increased their ability to communicate in shifted form. John had seen the proof in Molly and Greg, who had taken the course last term.

The class did not take place in any of the many buildings on Baker's campus but instead it was held in a sheltered amphitheatre located in the forest just past B Wing. It was used for a few courses like this one, as well as theatre groups and performers.

The professor for John's class was an owl, a great grey shift, to be precise. This was because the course was taught in shifted form. Along the benches sat Changelings of all shapes and sizes. It was obvious that the amphitheatre had been constructed to allow for this arrangement. There were normal, wide benches towards the bottom, where most small to midsized shifts could manage to sit comfortably. Right at the front there was an open area for those whose shifts were too small to get up on the normal benches. Along the back there was also an area free of benches, just shallow raised steps where Changelings with larger shifts could stand or sit according to their preference. All about there were stretches of textured bars where avian shifts of varying sizes could perch comfortably.

John understood why this class was only offered to university students on the first day of class as he slunk into the amphitheatre behind a spotted, pot-bellied pig. Even when the professor alighted down onto the perch at the front of the theatre and announced herself as Professor Tidwell, and the class attempted to quiet themselves, the clearing still hummed with the sounds of claws on wood, feathers rustling, the panting of canines, an equine snort. John could not even begin to image the disaster that would be this amphitheatre filled with secondary students, or- heaven forbid- primary students. It would be absolute chaos.

Sherlock didn't understand why John was taking the class when he had told him about it. When John explained that just because _they _could speak fluently in shifted form didn't mean he didn't want to be able to talk to other people as well the young genius only became more baffled and John gave up on explaining it to him.

. . .

A week or so into winter term John was woken up at around one o'clock in the evening by his door opening. The light from the hallway hurt his eyes as he blearily tried to make out the visitor. However, it wasn't as if he didn't already know.

"Sherlock?" John mumbled, shielding his eyes. "What is it?"

Wordlessly his friend entered the room, door swinging shut behind him and grabbed the rarely used quilt folded at the bottom of John's bed as well as the spare pillow behind John's head, causing his head to fall unceremoniously backwards.

"Hey!" John complained indignantly, as Sherlock spread the blanket on John's floor. "What are you doing?"

"I want to lie down. My bed is covered in files."

Sherlock placed the pillow on the ground and ungracefully flopped back, settling on his back, palms resting on his chest.

"Well clear them off," John said, irritated at being woken up but knowing that there was no chance of Sherlock leaving now.

Sherlock ignored him as John expected.

"It's been happening for five years."

Sherlock's voice was quiet and awake. In the gloom John could see him staring up at the ceiling. John rubbed his eyes once more and turned on the lamp on his bedside table.

"What's been happening for five years?"

Sherlock looked at him under dark lashes. Then suddenly all attempts at feigned peace were abandoned and he popped up off the ground like a ping-pong ball pressed under water and then released.

"Until five years ago, one to two Changelings at each Institute in Britain Wandered per year. Historically the average combined student Wanderings was anywhere from 35 to 45 per annum. Five years ago that average jumped from 42, six years ago, to 51, five years ago, and it has hovered between 46 and 57 per annum since then," Sherlock said, wild light in his eyes, seeing the numbers in the air in front of him.

John was too tired to process at a high enough speed to hope to keep up with Sherlock tonight so he didn't even pause before prompting an explanation.

"What does that mean, Sherlock?"

Sherlock flopped down again, and John was afraid he'd hurt himself, but he seemed fine.

"It means that in the past five years there have been about ten more Wanderings a year than the historic average. The higher numbers don't come from specific Institutes but all of them, the increase spread out over a number of Institutes, and which Institutes show an increase changes each year. It's never the same. I have checked the statistics of neighbouring countries and no such rise is detectable…" Sherlock's eyes were wide and John was looking over the side of the bed, watching when he looked up to meet John's gaze. "John, it means in the past five years over fifty British Changelings have been taken, killed, stolen, I don't know… but they were made to look like Wanderings and nobody has noticed."

John couldn't speak for a moment. He just stared, Sherlock's blue eyes never wavering from John's. The idea that such a horrible thing could be occurring without the notice of officials... under the guise of something nearly sacred was a hard thing to swallow.

Sherlock finally looked away, rolling back onto his back.

"John… there's something else…" he murmured.

There was more? How could there be more?

"What?" John's voice came out hushed.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed.

"My immediate guess to the culprits of such an act would be a group of Normals… there are still multitudes of anti-Changeling hate groups. It's happened before, such groups targeting Institutes. Not as elaborately as this but it is a logical possibility except…" Sherlock trailed, head cocking to the side, as if something was actually hard to understand, even for him.

"Except what, Sherlock?" John asked, his hands fisting in his duvet.

Sherlock looked up at him, something like wonder in his face.

"There are Changelings involved, John. I don't know how much, or if it's willing participation, or coerced, but it was a Changeling that returned Justin Hara's marker to his changing booth. Changelings are a part of this," Sherlock said, light sparking in his eyes.

John shook his head, amazed that Sherlock had figured all this out. His confidence in his decision not to try and make Sherlock leave the case to the staff or police was solidified. They would have never figured all this out, but there was still so much they didn't know.

"What are we going to do?" John asked.

Sherlock smiled and John's stomach twisted a little uncomfortably because he hated it when Sherlock forgot about actual lives, which he was obviously doing now.

"We're going to figure out how and why this is happening, and catch whoever is doing it," Sherlock said gleefully.

"And save the false Wanderers if they are alive, right, Sherlock?" John asked, with a stern set to his face.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and made a dismissive hand motion with his 'agreeable' nod, which infuriated John to no end.

"Sherlock, there could be lives at stake. At least pretend you care about that," John scolded.

The young genius looked up at John with disdain.

"Caring about them won't help save them," Sherlock said.

Sometimes, John really just didn't understand him. He shook his head trying not to admit to himself that it hurt to hear Sherlock say things like this for reasons John didn't understand.

"That's… that's not the point," John said wearily.

Sherlock pushed himself up onto his elbow and looked at John defiantly.

"Well then what _is _the point, John?"

John opened his mouth to respond but found he had no words to explain himself and he was just tired. He let the anger fall off his face.

"I—no, fine. Never mind. Just go to sleep, Sherlock. I'm sure you'll work out what's happening soon," John said, turning the light off, leaving them both in the dark.

There was nothing for a while and John thought Sherlock might actually be going to sleep, or at least allowing John to do so, even if he doubted he would sleep for a good while with how uncomfortably twisted his stomach was, but then there was a very faint twitch against his mind.

"I've disappointed you," Sherlock said softly in the darkness. "I can feel it."

Sherlock almost sounded troubled. John sighed in the dark.

"Maybe a bit," John said, honestly. "But it's okay. I shouldn't expect you to feel something just because I think you should."

He said the words but the tight knot of unease at Sherlock's apparent disregard for human life still resided in his chest. There was silence and suddenly John _knew _Sherlock was troubled. He could picture the scowl on his face even in the dark. He was troubled and confused.

"I'm… sorry?" Sherlock's hesitant and unsure voice escaped into the room.

The knot loosened and John rolled his eyes, even if his friend couldn't see that. Maybe Sherlock cared about _something _at least. John shut his eyes and pulled his duvet tighter around him.

"It's okay, Sherlock. You're still brilliant," John murmured, sleep and disposition making him frank.

Sherlock said nothing, but the displeasure John had sensed previously disappeared, and was replaced with a surprised pleasure. A light smile played on John's lips that shouldn't have been there for a number of reasons but remained as he slipped into unconsciousness.


	12. Bond

_**_**_**_**_**_******Author's Notes:**This will be a full length AU fic and will be posted up here as I finish and my lovely, amazing beta, **kathecello, **cleans them up! Warnings for the whole story: general adult themes, swearing, mentions of child abuse, drug use/abuse, graphic sex, and violence. Rating has gone up.****_**_**_**_**_**_

_**_**_**_**_**_****Hello Everyone! From a couple reviews and comments I thought I should point out that there is a lot in this 'vesre that isn't explicitly stated, shift forms of side characters, locations of major Institutes, but nearly all of them are thought out in my notes. If anyone is curious don't hesitate to ask on the Ashes blog (heartoutofashes . tumblr . com). As always please review as I love all of your feedback! Oh and one other note on reviews, I notice some people have switched to signed but unlinked reviews since I've enabled anonymous reviews and some of them have had good questions in them, but I can't answer them if they are anonymous unfortunately. Just wanted to make everyone aware!  
><strong>**_**_**_**_**_**_

_**How to Build a Heart out of Ashes: **__Bond_

_by Teumessian_

**Whoever is orchestrating this is clever, John. And I don't mean your average clever, like you or even Irene, but **_**me **_**clever.**

Sherlock dug his claws into the gnarled bark of the tree where he was resting and pulled, stretching his back before flopping back down onto the thick branch.

**And I know you don't like it when I admire criminals but just take a moment to at least **_**realise **_**what it would take to pull off a continued operation like this.**

Sherlock began to lick the inside of his forepaw as he spoke. He sensed a light flash of annoyance from his friend but he didn't respond so Sherlock continued.

**I mean just the act of rotating between schools like that, making the jump in average Wanderings almost invisible because it was spread over all 26 Institutes in Great Britain. On top of that, whoever is doing this has managed to make the false Wanderings so similar to true Wanderings that not even I could tell you which of the two hundred and forty six student Wanderings in the past five years were faked because there is no defining difference among them that I can find. They even get fevers, John! Do you realize the brilliance that would take, John?**

Finally, John responded, but not in the way Sherlock wanted.

**Sherlock, that's all very lovely but do you know how hard it is to try and speak to an unfamiliar speech partner with you jabbering in my ear… brain… whatever. **_Frustration._

Sherlock rolled his eyes and looked through the winter-thin foliage that separated him from the Huxley Amphitheatre where his friend was currently trying to have what looked like pathetic excuse for a conversation with a grey goose.

**I still don't know why you feel the need to take this class…** Sherlock grumbled from the trees.

It was a waste of time in Sherlock's opinion. He and John could already speak fluently and Sherlock could speak well enough to strangers. However, this was at least a better waste of time than Sarah had been.

Sherlock felt the distinct spark of irritation as the basics of his feelings on the subject slipped over the connection between their minds.

He had been more and more lax on keeping up the solid wall around his mind lately, and that combined with the way the channel was always widening it seemed there wasn't a whole lot that wasn't heard when they were in shifted form. Sherlock still had the ability to clamp down on most of his thoughts but usually he couldn't be bothered.

Despite Sherlock's outward apparent inattention to the open bond between John and himself he was certainly making notes on it. How could he not when it was leaking out into their human forms? And that part especially was growing as of late.

Sherlock laid his head against his paws, eyes trained on the blonde wolf who seemed to actually be trying to gesticulate with his paws. Sherlock understood what he was trying to say but the goose looked totally lost.

Despite his recent lapse in mental security, Sherlock did keep these notes from John. It's not that he exactly _worried _about how John would react to the knowledge of their… particular uniqueness, but even if John was better and more tolerable than anyone else Sherlock knew, he still fostered certain pedestrian habits and feelings that Sherlock honestly didn't feel like correcting—that was all.

Sherlock's tail was waving in agitation by this point. He was bored. God, why was the world so dull sometimes? Well, the case of the Wanderers was interesting but it was slow work. It was similar to waiting to catch a serial killer—actually it might _be _a serial killer for all he knew at this point. Either way, it meant there was something to look forward to, and that was promising…

John had been pointedly ignoring him but at that there was a flash of angry disapproval at that. Sherlock's ears flattened and he turned his head away—sulking. This went on for at least three minutes before Sherlock got bored of even that.

_Bored. Bored. Bored. Bored!_

**Dear god, Sherlock, stop that! I can't even focus. Don't you have a class or something?** John said wearily.

Sherlock's tail swished back and forth.

**No.** he said simply.

He only had two lectures today and he'd already finished them.

There was a general groan from John, partially because of Sherlock, partly because he didn't want to be in class right now. He and the goose had no affinity for each other and the conversation was failing miserably. Sherlock could tell and he jumped on the opportunity.

**John, let's go to Meriden Pond.**

Even from this distance Sherlock saw John's ears flick in response.

**Why? And what part of 'I am in class right now' don't you understand?**

His tone was annoyed but Sherlock didn't miss the undercurrent of temptation.

**I want to see if the toads have begun to hibernate yet since we had a cold autumn.** Sherlock said, basically ignoring John's second question. **You are going to switch conversation partners again in a moment. Slip into the woods when Professor Tidwell isn't looking. You have an odd number of students in your class. You won't be missed.**

John was now equally irritated and interested. Still, John had a frustrating streak of responsibility.

**Give me one good reason why we can't go just as easily after class?** John asked.

Sherlock's claws sunk violently into the tree bark, making it crack, and a light snarl curled his lips as his eyes narrowed.

_**BORED!**_ he positively shouted at John.

Sherlock felt him sigh internally.

**Jesus, you are like a child sometimes…**

Sherlock would have come up with a scathing retort but despite his words, they were switching partners now, and John was glancing over at Professor Tidwell, ears pricked forward in attention. Then with a single bound John dropped off the bench he'd been occupying and slipped behind an oak tree with his head slunk low.

Ears twitching in pleasure, Sherlock rose and stretched once more before dropping to the forest floor to meet John, who was trying to look disapproving but his tail was waving just lightly back and forth, betraying him completely. He'd told him that class was stupid.

. . .

John was usually a good student. In most classes he tried to keep useful notes and he always did his coursework. However, he would admit he was putting no more than minimum necessary effort into his Intro to Changelings course. To be fair, he paid attention when Professor Highland discussed the history of Changelings, but that was mostly stuff they were going to be learning in the second half of the course. So currently John was just bored out of his mind, daily listening to the lists of things that could go horribly wrong if a shift form wasn't exercised frequently enough and that slip shifting was nothing to be ashamed of.

Professor Highland was a middle aged serval cat shift, and a good man. He seemed to take pity on John and never called on him to answer questions in front of the class, not drawing attention to him, and he never told John off the few times he'd fallen asleep in class. For this, John would be eternally grateful. With anyone's help there was already a freckly, redheaded primary girl who had taken to staring unabashedly at him for long periods of time.

This week's lecture had all been about shift speech, which was especially mind numbing because of the whole other class John was taking on that subject alone. So by Friday John came in to class fully prepared for a possible nap when he noticed the subject of today's lecture was projected onto the screen from a powerpoint.

_Atypical Shift Speech and Open Bonds,_ it read.

John decided he would pay attention in class today. It couldn't hurt.

For the first half of class Professor Highland discussed abnormal shift speech and related disorders. That in itself was rather interesting and John actually took notes on the different shift speech disorders. Apparently there were certain individuals who lacked the ability to use shift speech at all, and others who never progressed past the conveyance of basic feelings and emotions. John passively took notes until a new slide with a familiar title popped up on screed above the image of a yin-yang. This was the first thing that sent up sparks in John's reservoir of instincts. Professor Highland cleared his throat, adjusted his tie, and then began the second half of his lecture.

"Depending on whether you have come from a Changeling or Normal household, you may or may not have heard of open bonds," the man started. "From a scientific standpoint, an open bond is characterized by the intrinsic ability of two Changelings to speak fluently to one another from their first encounter in shifted form, regardless of the original familiarity of the individuals, their experience with shift speech, or their maturity, as well as possessing a light empathetic link while in shifted form."

For a moment John felt confident. That was almost word for word what Sherlock had told him last summer. Then John's heart rapidly sunk, with his faith in Sherlock's honesty, as he realized there were still twenty minutes left in the lecture and Professor Highland looked far from through. He cleared his throat once more, and John twisted his fingers around his pencil in unease.

"However, the cultural and historic significance of the open bond far outweighs any scientific definition created in the modern day," Professor Highland said with a wry smile towards a few girls who began giggling at that statement.

Oh, no. John didn't like that, not one bit. What did those blushing school girls know that he didn't?

"The open bond is the root of more cultural motifs and traditions than one can count. In nearly every culture there is a concept of rare instances where two people fit each other better than they possibly could with any other person on the planet. The stories vary but at their hearts they all possess this characteristic. Most anthropologists, historians and the like agree that all of these beliefs originated from the occurrence of open bonds in Changelings—the truth behind the myths, so to speak.

"For the Greeks it was one of the legends of the origins of mankind. Humans were originally created with two heads, four arms, and four legs, but Zeus feared that they were too powerful and might overpower the gods. So, he split them each in two, dooming them to spend their lives searching for their other half. The Greeks believed that when two Changelings had an open bond it was because they found their other half, and they had no communication barrier because they were originally part of the same being.

"In Eastern and Taoist cultures it is the source of the yin and yang motif," Professor Highland said and paused to pull up a larger picture of the symbol.

John just sat back in his chair, a little limp and wide eyed. It was a lot to process, and Highland wasn't even finished.

"Yin and Yang, two entities fitting together, different, even opposite, forces but in perfect balance with one another. Even the symbol denotes these attributes. Each side in such stark contrast with the other, yet still each containing elements of the opposite," he said, first indicating the locked tear drops and then the spots at their cores, the same colour as the shape in which they were twisted into. "And creating one whole."

The girls giggled again and John wanted to strangle them. This _wasn't _funny. How could they possibly think this was funny! This was serious!

"While not inherently romantic by nature," Professor Highland began and John dropped his head into his hand with a mumbled 'Jesus Christ.' "In western society it is, without a doubt, the origin of the term Soul Mate."

With that final blow to the entire established structure of John's life, he resolved to kill Sherlock Holmes. The bastard didn't think when he asked he might want to _know_ all this? Might have been a little goddamned useful! At least now he understood his friends' reactions to Sarah and his other decisions over the past four months.

Professor Highland went on, moving away from the whole soul mate business to less concerning aspects of open bonds—how or why they might happen and John slowly but surely calmed himself down from homicidal. Only at the very end of the lecture did the professor say another little fact that was notable but currently overshadowed by John's slow recover from having the rug pulled completely out from under him and being thrown on his metaphorical arse. It was at the tail end of a discussion on the empathetic link between open bonded individuals.

"The empathetic link can be found in varying strengths dependent on the Changelings, and is said to grow over time. While it hasn't been proven, it has been rumoured that there actually used to be links so powerful that Changelings could feel the empathetic link in human form. However, this is speculation so when the question comes up on your mock exam on Monday don't be confused!"

Half the class groaned, accepting that just because of that statement they were missing a question on their mock exam, and with a flourish Professor Highland turned off the projector and the lecture was over. John hesitated for a moment as the crashes and clatters of other students leaving rose up around him. Then he lurched upright, heading directly for the front of the classroom.

Professor Highland looked up and smiled as John approached. He was slipping his course materials into his brown, leather bag.

"Hello, Mr. Watson. You seemed to get more out of this lecture than most of the others. Did you find it interesting?" he asked.

Well, that was the understatement of the year.

"Oh, um, yeah," John said eloquently.

John really wasn't sure how to begin. Professor Highland helped him out.

"Anything I can help you with?" he said with a grin.

John wasn't even sure what he wanted to ask about. He shifted his weight from one leg to the other.

"You said open bonds were very rare… I am just curious exactly how rare? I mean have you ever known someone with one?" John finally asked, hands stuffed in his jacket pockets.

Professor Highland adjusted his glasses.

"Well, I have known about a few over the years. We have a higher possibility of seeing them, working at the Institutes, just because so many Changelings rotate through,' he explained.

A little hope flared in John. Maybe it wasn't _such _a big deal after all.

"Is there anyone at the Institute with one now?" John asked, consciously having to stop himself from saying 'anyone else.'

Professor Highland swung his bag over his shoulder and smiled fondly.

"Well as a matter of fact there is, and has been for a good while now—a good friend of mine, Professor Raine in the English department," he explained.

This was good!

"Who does she have it with?" John asked brightly.

Professor Highland laughed, soft smile on his face, and that expression did not bode well. Already John's heart was sinking.

"Well, today he's her husband of over twenty years. They got married as soon as they graduated from the Institute."

Yeah, the hope was all gone. John Watson was royally screwed.

. . .

John had meant to confront Sherlock right away over his deliberate, because it had to be, exclusion of knowledge but then he had run straight into him and he fired off onto one of his rants, or maybe it had been a rave. John hadn't been paying very close attention. Once he was in the face of the confrontation he had no idea what to say.

'Hey, Sherlock, why the fuck didn't you see fit to inform me that we are bloody _soul mates_?' had a nice ring to it but he found himself unable to force that out into the open, fearing what the answer might be.

So John did the only logical thing an eighteen year old boy could do—say nothing and let it build up until he cracked, literally in John's case.

Two days after professor Highland's enlightening lecture, a Sunday, John sat in his usual place at the head of Sherlock's bed with his laptop, answering a few emails from his Normal friends back home. He didn't talk to them a lot but he'd kept up his goal of at least keeping in touch.

Sherlock was working on his own version of the Wanderers' Wall. The files had been moved into a set of precarious stack sin the corner as Sherlock seemed to have gotten almost all the use he could out of them. The wall across from the bed was the object of Sherlock's attention. It was the most uninterrupted expanse in the room originally, but now it was the home of an giant map of Great Britain and over that were photographs, names, notes, dates and an excessive amount of string that connected it all in ways that only made sense to Sherlock Holmes.

John knew he'd managed to slightly narrow down which of the Wanderings of the past five years were faked but he was still left with over half the original total, and even those were chosen on precarious speculation. John also knew Sherlock was running out of ideas and that was making him irritable. John was worried they were coming to a dead end.

John was irritable as well but for very different reasons, and with the empathetic link it was creating a nasty feedback loop and just made it worse. The combination meant they'd been bickering all weekend, and yet somehow John had ended up in here after rugby practice. He was starting to believe he was a masochist because being here certainly wasn't making John any less tense.

He should really just bring it up and get it over with. I mean, it wasn't going to change anything, right? Because that was what scared John most about this whole thing. Sherlock handled emotional issues even worse than John did, which at this point gave them the overall emotional maturity of a five year old—perfect balance John's arse… No, it would be fine. He was going to say something.

John was so engrossed in the thoughts about his problem that he made the fatal mistake of forgetting that problem was in the room with him. So when John heard a voice not a half meter above his head, it was safe to say he was more than a little shocked.

"John, I need your laptop."

He was _right there. _John's head snapped up to see a curly mass of brunette hair headed straight for him. In his jumpy state John was _not _equipped to deal with surprise, not one bit.

"Son of a—" he began but the sentence never made it all the way out.

There were actually many factors that probably contributed. John was still a fairly young Changeling and though his control was remarkably good, he never went over four days without a trip into the woods and today was day three. Maybe it was the stress, and the shock was just enough to trigger what none of the factors could have caused alone.

The laptop fell, clattering against the wall, thankfully not falling to the floor. Fabric ripped and a surprised, inhuman yelp replaced the end of his curse. As always it was over in less than a second and John was instinctively twisting to right himself on the yielding bedclothes. A little disoriented, John shook his head.

"John, are you okay?" a mildly surprised voice said from his right.

John sighed heavily. He was fine, but annoyed and a fair bit embarrassed. He looked up at Sherlock and gave a light, short bark to say his was fine. Sherlock's face was slack and calm, his blue eyes were a little wide but really John was just thinking about getting off the bed and making Sherlock let him into his room so he could relax for a while and then shift back, but as his eyes slid towards the floor they passed over something that made his heart absolutely stop. Sherlock was wearing a black button up today, and had rolled the sleeves up past his elbows hours ago as he often did when he was working on something. John's eyes were now glued to four parallel angry lines marring the pale skin of his forearm.

John's stomach roiled as he realized where they had come from. Slip shifts weren't very controlled… He'd been in such an awkward position…

His heart stuttered back to life but with it came the images of scars, and maybe it was the stress but John will admit he may have panicked.

_Oh, fuck. Dear god, no! Fuck… fuck!_

He lunged forward without even thinking about it, a pained, hateful whine leaking from his mouth. What had he done? He'd hurt Sherlock. And then he was licking him, warm, wet tongue making broad, sweeping strokes over the offending marks. He wanted to _erase _them. He didn't know why he was doing it but the instinct was overpowering.

"John!"

_Jesus Christ! I'm sorry! Fuck, fuck, fuck…_

"J—John, stop. It's okay, stop! Look!" Sherlock said pulling away and finally John let himself look. "They're just welts, John. They'll disappear in an hour or so."

John stared, and then blinked twice. Sherlock was right they were actually more pink than red. There wasn't even any blood. John had gotten worse from wrestling with the neighbour's dog. He'd thought…

John's head went limp with relief, ears drooping. Seriously, what was wrong with him?

He hesitated a moment and then turned away. He moved to the end of the bed and collapsed with a heavy sigh. He curled up in a little ball. John knew he was basically sulking but Sherlock did it all the time and it was his turn.

Sherlock didn't say anything, but John felt the bed dip as Sherlock climbed onto it and heard the sound of his laptop being retrieved. Trust Sherlock to be unphased by an episode like this. He was just going to go on with whatever he'd been doing before John exploded into a furry, clawed beast—crazy git.

John was thankful. And at least he had an excuse not to bring up the open bond now.

His back was towards Sherlock so John was taken completely by surprise when a pair of long feet wormed their way under his ribcage. He twisted, head turned over his shoulder, question obvious. Sherlock glanced up to meet his gaze, face clear.

"My feet were cold," he explained.

John's ears flattened, deadpan expression in his eyes.

"Think of it as atonement for scratching me," Sherlock said, going back to John's laptop, keyboard clicking. "You seemed quite concerned earlier."

_Wanker_, John thought, and narrowed his eyes at Sherlock but it was lost on him as the young genius didn't seem to be paying him any mind. The computer screen cast blue light onto Sherlock's face and made him look even thinner and more frail than usual. No wonder he was cold; he didn't have a gram of fat on him.

Another lighter sigh slipped from his wolf lungs and he rolled his eyes before laying his head back down on his paws. The feet wiggled even further under him and John actually leaned back, ensuring they were covered completely.

Two hours later Sherlock finally rose from the bed, pushing John from his light doze at the foot of the bed. He could have changed back an hour and a half ago but he'd been revelling in the inability to speak. This was because John knew he had to say something now. One of them had to be a grown up.

Sherlock stretched and John looked back over his shoulder at his best friend. Sherlock narrowed his eyes towards his Wanderer's wall, obviously blaming it for not giving him something useful.

"Want to go to the forest?" he asked.

Sherlock often went to the forest when he was stumped with a problem. The clarity it gave him often cleared a path to the solution. Though, thus far, no matter how many trips they took no solution seemed to be found under the trees.

John rolled his shoulders and rose to his feet, messing up Sherlock's duvet as he took his turn to stretch. Sherlock knew this was a yes.

"No reason to bother using changing booths when you are already shifted. I'll just shift here and we can leave the door cracked," Sherlock said, walking over to make sure the door was lightly cracked and they could get out.

John made another short bark-huff of agreement and turned towards the door to give Sherlock some privacy.

He knew when Sherlock shifted, the familiar widening of feeling that always accompanied it alerted him. In response he made sure to hold his thoughts a little closer to his chest than normal. It had taken time but John had eventually learned how to keep his thoughts in his head but it was difficult, and not a natural instinct for him. Reason number two why he needed to just get this over with Sherlock.

The familiar black shape brushed past him. A set of hooked claws made easy work of widening the crack into an exit for them. They headed down the west staircase that was right next to Sherlock's room. There had been a reason John had never run into Sherlock his first few weeks at the Institute. The west staircase was closer to John's room and led almost directly to the dining hall which made it more popular, but since Sherlock rarely ate, and certainly not at regular times, he'd rarely used that staircase before he and John became friends.

The dormitories were very Changeling friendly and for that John was thankful. Most doors swung both directions so it was easy to push through and one could, for the most part, get around without opposable thumbs.

When they made it out into the open night John was surprised to see fluffy white puffs of snow drifting towards the earth. It was going to be a long winter.

Once they were under the trees of Baker Forest they began to wander aimlessly. Sherlock was quiet, thinking, as was John. He was just going to say it—just do it.

**So… I had an interesting lecture in Intro last Friday…** John began.

Sherlock's ears twitched.

**Interesting? What about? I thought that class bored you to tears.**

John steeled himself.

**It was about open bonds.**

It was very, very tiny, but John swore Sherlock's tail flicked, indicating some form of emotional response to that.

**Oh… that explains why you've been acting so strange over the past few days.**

So Sherlock had noticed. Of course he did, and he knew that would make John act strange. That John didn't expect.

**What do you mean?** John asked.

They were walking side by side so John didn't miss the panther's wearing eye-roll.

**Professor Highland is an intelligent and passionate man but he is also a hopeless romantic.**

Sherlock definitely knew what was bothering John then. A little faith in his humanity was restored in John.

**Are you saying all that stuff he said isn't true? About the… the—legends and stuff.** John asked, unable to actually utter any of those horrible words Professor Highland had used.

**No, the histories are true. The open bond did inspire most of those legends.** Sherlock amended and John's stomach dropped. **But just because they evolved from the open bonds doesn't mean it **_**is**_** all of those things. We evolved from single celled aquatic organisms, but that doesn't make me an amoeba.**

Sherlock said the words with certainty, and a calm that made it sound like everything John thought was pleasantly wrong and it was all fine and right after all. He let that sink in for a moment, paws crunching on the freezing ground. This was good. Sherlock was right. He'd been over reacting the whole time. He let his eyes fall closed for a moment, trusting the sound of Sherlock's footsteps not to lead them into anything solid.

**I… I hadn't thought about it like that.** John said.

Sherlock snorted.

**Of course not; you're an idiot.**

A wheezy laugh escaped John and he nipped the panther's furry ear.

**Arse.** John said, as he did so.

Sherlock's head snapped away in surprise.

**Ow!** he complained, but John knew he was mostly just whining.

The panther narrowed his eyes and sped up, out of biting range. John laughed again, utter relief flooding through his system, and trotted forward through the falling white flakes to keep up.

But that was sort of the problem with all this; John wanted to believe Sherlock far too badly. He _wanted _that to be the truth, but if he ever looked back on this moment he would one day have to admit to himself that he felt the undercurrent below Sherlock's words, and that undercurrent was absolute and blinding fear.

Sherlock was even more afraid of this than John was.


	13. Smoke

_**_**_**_**_**_**_******Author's Notes:**This will be a full length AU fic and will be posted up here as I finish and my lovely, amazing beta, **kathecello, **cleans them up! Warnings for the whole story: general adult themes, swearing, mentions of child abuse, drug use/abuse, graphic sex, and violence. Rating has gone up.****_**_**_**_**_**_**_

_**_**_**_**_**_**_****As always thank you for your continued support! I hope to keep hearing from you all. Read, review, enjoy! 3 Also, there is a lovely new piece of fanart from Chapter 12 up on the Ashes blog (link to masterpost can be found in my profile). Love you all. Cheers.****_**_**_**_**_**_**_

_**_**_**_**_**_**_****_**PLEASE READ: If you guys got a recent notification for ch14 that is for THIS chapter. There was a whole bunch of fail by when I was trying to get this up and this is the best way I can think of to get a notification out that the new chapter is now actually up-for real. So sorry if you already found it on your own!**_****_**_**_**_**_**_**_

_**How to Build a Heart out of Ashes: **__Smoke_

_by Teumessian_

First John's phone vibrated in his pocket—just a text. He ignored it. John was sure it could wait until after biology. Then it vibrated again, and again, and then twice more in quick succession. Still John ignored it, because now John knew the texts could only be from one person. If he checked them the demanding git would probably have said something abrasive enough to compel a response from John and that would only encourage him. Then his phone started ringing—well buzzing, but he was definitely receiving a call. He fished his mobile out of his pocket, and sure enough the caller ID read 'Sherlock.' He never called—hated talking on the phone. This was enough to prompt John to at least check the texts.

He opened his notifications under his desk and saw the six unopened texts and one missed call. He opened the first text.

**John, meet me at the last changing booth. –SH**

Sherlock meant the last changing booth in the row of booths that lined the field on the edge of Baker Forest. It was closest to the tree line and Sherlock's favourite. Now it had become a common meeting place for the two of them. John opened the next text.

**John, hurry up. –SH**

And the next.

**John, this is important. –SH**

**John. –SH**

**John. –SH**

Then there was the missed call and one more text.

**John, there's been another Wandering. –SH**

He cursed under his breath and hit the button to respond.

**Why wouldn't you say that first, idiot?**

John hit send and slipped his mobile back into his pocket, thanking the gods this class was in a lecture hall and that he'd snagged an end seat that afternoon.

As quietly as he could, John slipped his notebook and pencil into his backpack and then quickly stood when the professor turned to write something on the board and made for the door, determinedly not looking towards the teacher. Don't make eye contact, look confident, John repeated the familiar mantra in his head. With a sad thought, John realized he had far too much practice at this. Sherlock was a terrible influence.

The biology building was one of the fancy, modern buildings behind Baker Grand Hall so it only took John a few minutes to reach the noted changing booth. He recognized Sherlock from all the way across the field but there were two much smaller shapes to his right. When he got closer, John realized it was Adam Knight as well as another primary student, yellow striped tie haphazardly knotted around his neck. He had to be even younger than Adam. He had short brown hair, big ears and large anxious eyes. John felt a nervous swoop in his stomach.

"Finally. It took you forever."

It sounded like the words of Sherlock, but instead it was it was a cool, scowling remark from Adam Knight. The second boy's wide eyes flicked up at Adam's scathing words, obviously uncomfortable. After just a second's pause, John decided to ignore the rude child and looked up at Sherlock. The Changeling looked wired, like a greyhound behind a gate.

"So, what happened? And why are these two here?" John asked, glancing at the newcomer whose ears turned fire red and looked away.

"Hannah Chamberlain Wandered approximately two days ago, at least that's what the staff believes. She apparently was not highly social and so they only realized she was missing when she didn't show up for her morning lecture today. Her disappearance went unnoticed over the weekend. Since the Wandering took place a few days ago I doubt even your nose will do much good. I need a scent hound and Adam provided his younger brother, who has a beagle shift."

John looked at Adam's stony face and Sherlock's clear one. He knew Sherlock's chief concern was the case—and John had a huge stake in this, too, at least in the people they could save. However, sometimes his best friend did things he really shouldn't, like using primary students as tools, for example.

"Sherlock, did you pull them out of class?" John asked.

Sherlock opened his mouth to reply but Adam beat him to it.

"We got out early," he said, annoyed.

John didn't lot like Adam Knight, and was far more concerned about his quivering younger brother, Henry.

"Did you force your brother to do this?" John asked, scowl set firmly on his face.

The dark haired boy's eyes narrowed.

"He's getting paid, too!"

John glared at Sherlock and then looked at Henry, who was staring at his toes.

"Er, Henry was it?" John asked, ignoring the way Sherlock had started fluttering around like a mother bird protecting a nest, realizing John was trying to ruin his plan. "You know you don't have to do this if you don't want to."

The little boy shifted back and forth, not making eye contact.

"N-no, I want to do it…" the little boy stuttered.

John looked back up at Sherlock.

"John, we aren't going to be able to find anything this time without a scent hound," Sherlock implored.

"You couldn't have found a more… age appropriate volunteer?" John asked.

"I could have asked my older sister but her shift is a bush dog and her sense of smell is awful so it wouldn't do you much good. Henry's is far better," Adam threw out.

John's glare silenced him.

Sherlock's bottom lip pushed out into an obvious pout.

"None of them will work with me," Sherlock whined.

John counted to three in his head.

"Sherlock, they are primary students. They're not allowed into the deep forest without adequate supervision and I'm sorry but you hardly qualify," John said, arms crossed over his chest.

Sherlock grinned.

"That's why I called you!"

So he'd been called here as a _babysitter. _Fantastic.

With one last all suffering sigh, John gave in.

Unfortunately not even the hyperactive nose of Henry's beagle shift could recover anything in the forest. Henry was devastated but soon recovered under John's consolation and Sherlock's promise that he could be the one to check Hannah Chamberlain's marker for signs of tampering, which John thought was actually kind, because John could tell Sherlock had already decided, for reasons invisible to John, that this was another fake.

Sherlock and John trailed behind the floppy eared beagle and the haughty blackbird that had helped interpret Henry's shift speech all afternoon. While the whispers were only in their minds, they still walked with their shoulders close to talk.

**You already know this one is faked, don't you?** John asked for confirmation.

Sherlock's steel blue eyes remained forward but he nodded once. John let it go silent for a moment and watched Henry's disproportionate puppy paws catch on a stick, and his brother flap his wings indignantly and scream complaints as they pitched forward. John's jaw tightened with the growing unease he'd felt since they'd first stepped under the trees. Baker forest was like home, but right now it didn't feel friendly at all—it felt haunted.

**Sherlock… I don't think we can bring them in here again.** John said.

John expected a series of complaints and denials but no such words assaulted his mind.

**I… I think you're right.**

He'd prepared a list of reasons to shut Sherlock down and was about to let them fly when he realized Sherlock actually agreed.

**Wait, really? Why?** John asked, surprised.

He was watching so he saw how Sherlock's whiskers twitched, his ears flattened minutely, and his icy eyes raked the trees.

**I believe you have felt it, too, John… but I think we are being watched.**

No wave of shock passed over John. He had good instincts and there was a reason for his own unease. Instead his hardened eyes began to scan the trees, not truly expecting to see anything.

**Three fake Wandering's at the name Institute within the last year? If you count out Lucy Heart and just count Justin and Hannah from this school, it's two only half way through the school year. They… he… has been so meticulous in the past. No more than one, **_**maybe **_**two per Institute in a year, and pulled it off without a second glance… until Lucy Heart. And then the scrutiny was noticed, as we know because both Justin and Hannah's markers were returned.**

John's face toughened in worry and confusion.

**Why wouldn't they avoid Baker for a while then? You said they rotated through Institutes. Why wouldn't they just take from the others?**

John felt Sherlock's tail bump against his own as it swung in slow, wide arcs.

**Maybe… whoever is doing this is glad their work is finally being appreciated.** Sherlock's low tones hummed in his mind. **Maybe… they're just bored.**

John's teeth pressed even harder together, hackles rising, and for once John thought there was a little _too _much sympathy in the voice of Sherlock Holmes.

. . .

The first few days after the Wandering, Sherlock threw himself back into the case once more. A profile on their enemies was added to the wall, and there was compiled a web of necessary components—informants, inside men, backers and at the very centre there was the mastermind—the one who Sherlock said was bored. It made John uncomfortable, the way Sherlock would stare at that spot, eyes intense and nearly excited. Even worse was the nagging sensation that it was staring gleefully back.

But as it historically had, the excitement faded into frustration as Sherlock ran into more dead ends, and John tried to ignore the way Sherlock's admiration for the mastermind seemed to grow with his frustration. John was worried about what might happen if this got any more personal. Sherlock's excitement was innocent, as it could be for him, but John feared about the rules of the game they were playing and that Sherlock assumed their opponent would play by them. Sherlock saw a worthy opponent; John saw a crocodile waiting under murky water. No good could come of the mastermind's attention.

As the winter progressed, John became so nervous that when Sherlock demanded he come to his room for a new experiment, and to bring an apple, John didn't even protest. He stopped by the dining hall on the way back from class, grabbed an apple and made his way straight up to 631A.

When he entered the room, Sherlock's back was to him.

"Shut the door," he said when he heard John cross the threshold.

John did as he was told.

"Brought the apple," John said, holding up the shiny red fruit.

"Good, give it here," Sherlock said, turning and sticking out his hand.

When he turned, John finally caught sight of what Sherlock was holding in his hand. It was a clear plastic baggie, and inside it were a few shrivelled green clumps. For once John didn't need Sherlock to classify which plant this was.

"Jesus Christ! Sherlock, is that _cannabis_!" John blurted.

"Indeed," Sherlock said levelly as he took the apple.

So it was going to be a 'drag the answers out one by one' day. Great. So where to start?

"How did you get that?" John decided.

Sherlock set the bag on his desk and began to inspect the apple.

"Well, I believe Greg confiscated it from a couple of sixth formers this morning. He was being annoying in history so I pick pocketed him. That I ended up with this is purely chance," Sherlock explained.

John ran a hand over his face.

"He's going to know it was you who took it," John pointed out.

Sherlock shrugged.

"Most likely, but it's not like he's going to report his own failure," Sherlock said, and John wondered how they still had any friends at all.

"So, why do you still have it?" John asked, moving on.

Sherlock didn't hesitate.

"Because I want to smoke it," he said simply.

"I'm sorry, but what?" John asked. "_You_?"

Sherlock's eyes furrowed at John's surprise and judgment.

"I just want to try it once—for the sake of scientific curiosity. John, I'm _bored_," Sherlock whined, exposing his truest motivator.

"You're bored so you're going to try cannabis?" John confirmed.

Sherlock shook his head.

"_We _are going to smoke cannabis," Sherlock amended his statement.

John's raised an eyebrow.

"What? Why?"

"I wish to both experience the effects as well as observe them first hand," Sherlock explained.

John's eyebrow just rose higher.

"You really think you are going to be in a state to observe?" John asked.

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"It's just cannabis, John," he said.

John debated. A month or so ago he would have refused to participate in something so illegal for something as trivial as Sherlock's boredom and whim, but right now he was just pleased Sherlock was focusing on something other than the ones behind the Wanderers' case. Besides, there are many people who would pay very good money to see Sherlock Holmes stoned. Who was John to squander such an opportunity?

"Fine. What's the apple for?" John asked.

Sherlock retrieved a pocket knife and a screwdriver from his desk.

"I read online that you can turn an apple into a pipe and smoke with it," Sherlock explained as he began to carve.

About an hour later, John lay on his back on Sherlock's bed, perpendicular to the wall so his heels were propped up against it and his head hung upside down off the side. Sherlock lay spread eagle on the floor.

This wasn't the first time John had tried cannabis. There had been two other times in sixth form when a couple of his friends got some and John agreed to try it with them, but both times there had been too many blokes and not enough substance, so all John felt was sobriety and a sore throat. He'd really just abandoned the idea after that, never having much interest in the first place. This time, though, it had just been Sherlock and himself, and there had been more than enough to go around. John's brain currently felt like it weighed twenty kilos.

Sherlock seemed to be much in the same state. John had never seen him look so relaxed but troubled at the same time. He kept mumbling how it was like thinking through molasses. It kept making John giggle, and then Sherlock would giggle, too. Really, John felt like he was so loose he could fall apart if he let himself. His mind was utterly free to roam as well.

John turned his head to look at his best friend, his face turned up towards the ceiling. Sherlock was wearing one of his white, school shirts, rolled up to his elbows, and a few of the buttons were undone, spread arms pulling them apart to expose a fair expanse of smooth, alabaster skin. How did it get like that? He wondered. It must be even softer than any of the girls John had been with.

At that point John probably should have taken an inventory of the turn his thoughts were taking, but he didn't.

He followed the line of Sherlock's tendons up his pale neck, and to the curve of his jaw, highlighted by the light they were currently openly exposed to, as were his cheekbones—clear, high planes blushed pink with the THC bouncing around in his wonderful brain at this very moment. John complained and griped his fair share, but at his core, John believed Sherlock's mind was something amazing, unique and truly inspiring.

Having said that, John thought Sherlock's eyes were the most instantly striking thing about him—the windows to that mind. They changed colour. John had never seen any eyes that did that before. They had been the first part of Sherlock that John ever knew. He would never forget first two times he saw Sherlock's eyes, or the time he saw them for what he was in whole.

The first was the strange stare of a strange boy in a strange new world. Then came the gaze of an even stranger creature under the sight of the moon, icy and clear but so very complicated. And then there was the day that Sherlock's eyes betrayed his true identity and the two creatures became one.

It wasn't until each one of these strangely artistic thoughts and observations passed through John's mind did he come to a final, yet somehow separate, realization: his best friend, Sherlock Holmes, was really sort of beautiful—well, very beautiful.

And now he was staring right back at John, fraction of a question on his lovely face. Body relaxed, blood pooling with gravity in John's head, some little part in his mind said he should feel something about the thoughts swirling around in his mind—guilt? Concern, most definitely—but there was none of that as his best friend, who was apparently gorgeous, stared him down. No, instead, a smile broke out on his face and John Watson began to giggle, not a care in the world. Sherlock's face cracked into laughter, too, low voice harmonising with John's higher giggles.

When they quieted, Sherlock looked back up at the ceiling.

"John," he said after a moment. "When you were little, what did you want to be?"

"Like, professionally?"

"Mhmm," Sherlock murmured.

John closed his eyes, revelling in how heavy his arms felt.

"A doctor," John said, nearly instantly.

Sherlock craned his neck to look at John.

"Even then?" he asked.

"Yeah," John hummed. "My father was an army doctor. I didn't want to be just like him exactly, but I always wanted to be able to do what he did—the excitement, the adventure, fixing people. He used to let me borrow his stethoscope and army cap and I'd run around the house, pretending to shoot Harry and then saving her."

John laughed breathily and then looked at his friend, who had a strange look on his face, a mix of many things that only John would be able to sense. There was interest and even fondness, but even more there was envy and displaced hurt. John's heart throbbed painfully and he wanted to say something about it but Sherlock looked away.

"What about you? What did you want to be?" John asked.

Sherlock paused and John thought about what little Sherlock might have wanted to be—a chemist, a policeman… perhaps a mad scientist. It wasn't any of those, though.

"I wanted to be a pirate."

John blinked at him twice. Then he started cracking up, head bouncing against the edge of the bed as his stomach muscles contracted and relaxed in quick succession. Sherlock's lips twitched, settling in a smile.

John's eyes flitted around the room for a while, taking in all there was to see through this new lens. They finally stopped on Sherlock's polished violin.

Suddenly the urge to hear him play was overwhelming. It may have been the intensity of his gaze on the object or his focus slipping through, but Sherlock rose from the floor and retrieved the instrument wordlessly. He sat cross-legged on the floor, John watching intently as he applied a fresh layer of rosin to the bow. Once finished, Sherlock put one leg out in front of him and adjusted his posture, other leg crossed in front, arch of his foot pressed into the side of his knee.

Then Sherlock lay the bow against the strings, and pulled, first note slipping directly under John's skin. His eyes slipped shut, sweet sounds painting colours and landscapes onto the backs of his eyelids. Nothing had ever been so vivid. The piece was familiar, but different at the same time, unbearably sweet but strangely sad. A loose smile played on John's lips, and he was silent.

Neither of them said a word for a very long time. John lay quiet on the bed and Sherlock stole a couple of pillows to boost himself up so he could lean against the mattress without it interfering with his bowing. He stared at the far wall. He had finished the first piece, and then went on to play through each movement of Vivaldi's seasons, and then on to Bach. He was half way through a piece when he stopped suddenly. John was half dozing, the high wearing off, but the unfinished notes stirred his mind and he opened his eyes to see Sherlock standing, eyes fixed on his Wanderer's Wall, flicking rapidly over his information laden map. There was something deliberate in his movements.

"Sherlock, what is it?" John murmured.

His shoulders were slack and his curly hair was mussed from lying on the ground earlier but John could feel his mind was focused to a knifepoint, and he couldn't tear his eyes away from the wall.

"John, about what percent of Changelings have shifts that you would consider exotic, or rare?" Sherlock asked.

John's eyebrows furrowed.

"I don't know… about the same as exotic animals to common ones, I guess?" John said, not really having much of a clue.

The violin left his should as Sherlock took a few steps towards the names and photographs.

"Why didn't I see it before…? How many, John, of these would you call exotic?" he asked, indicating the names and shifts.

John narrowed his eyes and rolled onto his stomach so he could actually see them right side up. Sherlock had the hundreds of Wanderers separated geographically by Institute and then by year of disappearance. Each Wanderer was marked by the traditional two part photo, human and shift, also their name, age and species of shift—but those were far too small for John to read at this distance. John instead scanned over the photographs, counted the ones he knew could be considered unusual or were threatened species, as well as the ones he didn't know the names for at all.

"There are… a lot," John said, having lost count.

Sherlock was grinning like a mad man, and suddenly he actually jumped into the air and spun around. He paused, staring at the wall for a moment more. Then his bow became a pointer.

"In the last school year alone! Look, John! From the Smith Institute: Marie Dent, Cuvier's gazelle shift, and Haley Tam, a Javan rhino. From the Esther Institute; David Harrow, a ring tailed lemur shift. From the Alabaster Institute, Finn Hillman, a Yangtze river dolphin. Lange Institute: Marisa Allhallows, Bicknell's thrush. Highland Institute: Darcy Williams, przewalski's horse. Churchill Institute: Jared Sampson, a California condor," Sherlock said, swinging the bow across the map, pointing at each individual. He wasn't done. "Then there's Lisa Jones, a golden lion tamarind shift from the Overfield Institute. From the Vinson Institute there's Damien Mars, Bengal tiger…. And finally Lucy Heart, Baker Institute, snow leopard… ten out of fifty one Wanderings are threatened or exotic species. That's a pretty steep ratio…"

His bow finally came to a rest, lowering to his side.

"And this year from Baker there has been Justin Hara, a rare komodo dragon shift, and Hannah Chamberlain, whose shift was an elusive okapi… and there was another Wandering from Alabaster just two weeks ago, a giant otter..."

John's throat was stuck and his face was painted with shock. He rolled off the bed to stand next to his best friend.

"They're taking students with rare shifts…" John breathed, understanding.

Side by side they stood, letting the names and faces sink in.

. . .

Though the epiphany was a breakthrough, it still wasn't a definite way to decide which shifts were faked or real. Sherlock had to accept the fact that statistically even some of the exotic shifts were most likely true Wanderings but it was still impossible to tell which. And even though he knew which students were being taken he still had nearly no idea _why _they were, and unless he knew that it was impossible to truly decide which Wanderings were false.

Since Changelings were involved Sherlock thought it may actually be a hate group, as he initially thought, but with a focus on rare shifts. It had happened before, so called 'anti-elitist', speciesist congregations. So it could be one of those, but if that was the students were mostly likely long dead, which was unfortunate because dead people are much harder to track down that living ones. For a plethora of reasons, Sherlock had not explained the details of this theory to John yet, who he thought would probably get angry at him again.

All of the students seemed to have a basic, objective level of attractiveness so maybe it was some specialized prostitution or sex slave trade… but the truth was eluding Sherlock to this point.

He was on his way though, at least until three days later, before he could come to any sort of conclusion, because suddenly all possible paths of deduction fell away as Sherlock's world promptly turned completely upside down.

"What do you mean you've never heard the Beatles? You can't be serious, Sherlock," John said as they climbed the east staircase, returning from class for the day.

Sherlock scowled; John was always so fixated on his rare but extensive gaps in knowledge. This particular event had been sparked by John hearing a song he called "She Loves You" in the hallway. He'd commented and Sherlock had asked who the song was by. When John had told him it was by "the Beatles" he'd simply remarked that he didn't recognise the name. It seemed harmless at the time but _apparently _he'd committed some heinous faux pas once again.

"No, I have not, or if I have I've deleted it as useless information," Sherlock said.

John sputtered.

"_Deleted it? _Like… you don't even know the songs! The big ones? I Want to Hold Your Hand? Eleanor Rigby? Penny Lane? Let it Be? Come Together!"

Sherlock's scowl deepened even further as they reached the sixth floor of A Wing.

"Last time I checked, murderers and criminals hardly ever draw upon the works of the _Beatles_," Sherlock said, as he unlocked his door to let them inside. "Therefore it doesn't interest me."

John just shook his head and laughed, walking over to where he left his work book for Intro on Sherlock's desk.

"But… it's the _Beatles!_" John giggled.

Sherlock opened his mouth to fire a scathing remark back at John, but then he saw the wall behind him, and the pocket knife they used to make the apple pipe thrust into it.

"Sherlock, what is it?" John asked, immediately becoming aware of the shift in his mood.

Sherlock took a step forward and realized the knife had been stabbed into the very centre of his newest web of string and data, right into the space he'd labelled 'mastermind' and pinned by it to the wall was a simple, white envelope. John followed his gaze and tensed. John had good instincts.

"Sherlock, what is that?" John asked slowly.

He cocked his head to the side, excitement rising. The expected was wonderful in such a dull world. John caution was enough to hold him back a little though, so Sherlock approached carefully.

"I don't know…" Sherlock said, voice low.

There was more to it, Sherlock realized, when he got close enough to see. Sherlock had written the word mastermind on a slip of paper and taped it to the wall a while ago now. The knife ran through the envelope and right into the 'm' of 'mind.' As for the rest of the word, Sherlock's script had been altered. He'd written in a simple black pen, but now the first M, the one in 'Master,' was _red_. Someone had taken what looked like a red paint and gone over it violently, it even overflowed onto the wall. The white envelope read "Sherlock" in clear, looping, black script.

Even Sherlock paused a little at the disturbing sign, but then he carefully pulled the knife from the wall, taking the not in hand and placing the pocket knife on this desk. John watched, focused and tense as a spring, as Sherlock turned the letter over and slowly broke the seal, reaching inside. There were two pieced of paper, on folded in half on top, and a smaller one of cardstock behind it. He unfolded the first sheet.

A second passed.

And then another.

And then Sherlock's blood froze in his veins and with a faint howl in his mind a mantra started running through his brain—_the brain releases epinephrine and norepinephrine. The pituitary gland releases corticotrophin-releasing factor and adrenocorticotropic hormone. They all work together to trigger dozens of other hormones throughout the body to create the physical and mental reaction we call 'fear'… the brain releases—_How could this be happening! This couldn't happen!

Even Sherlock couldn't help but read.

_Dear Sherlock,_

_ I know it's been a while but I was recently approached by a generous, anonymous party who was kind enough to inform me on how you have been over these long years. He even gave me a lovely picture, how you've grown, Sherlock. On that note, I have come to the decision that it is time for me to see how you are coming along myself, as some of the news I have received troubles me. I will see you very soon now, Sherlock._

_ Sincerely,_

_ Your father, Sigur Holmes_

His eyes were swimming in and out of focus. He felt… strange. This just didn't make any sense. He couldn't quite name what his body was doing exactly at this moment. Somehow he flipped to the little cardstock note, on autopilot. This one was very short and written in the same angry, red pen as the M. Only four words:

**Daddy misses you, Sherlock. :)  
><strong>

Sherlock rocked, graving going sideways. He vaguely heard John trying to get his attention, obviously feeling the panic and turmoil radiating from his mind, but unaware as to the reason, but he was frozen, stomach roiling. Oh, that was what the feeling was called: nausea, some detached part of his brain assessed.

_No! Not again! Oh, please no…! No…_

Glazed, angry eyes swam before his gaze, full of intent. They were everywhere.

"Sherlock!"

John's voice cut the chains holding him in place, but that was no better. All of John's effort to get Sherlock to eat breakfast this morning was about the go to waste. The papers fell from his fingers and he stumbled towards the small bin by his desk, reaching for it. John called out when his knees hit the floor, but he couldn't respond because suddenly everything evacuated his stomach with one almighty, wrenching twist.

"_Sherlock!"_ John shouted, and Sherlock could feel his flaring worries against his mind as he dropped to the floor beside him.

John _should _be worried, Sherlock thought as he heaved once more, eyes naturally tearing up. Well, he had been. His friend had tried to warn him about the mastermind. Sherlock had heard and felt his feelings on the subject. So this is what he'd meant by 'personal.' His rational mind was quickly fading though, as his opponent intended all along he realized, and analytical thought was chucked away with his self-control.

John's hand was gripping his shoulder as he continued to retch.

"Sherlock, what's _wrong_!"

He looked over and for just a second John's honest eyes were sufficient to clear the horrible memories from his sight for just long enough to answer, even if his voice was two octaves higher than normal, and it shook like a leaf; his whole _body_ was trembling.

"J-John, he—he's coming back...!"

Then his stomach heaved viciously once more, and the last part of the composed person he'd created with years of work fell into the bin with his sick, leaving nothing but a scared child shaking on the floor.


	14. Haze

_**_**_**_**_**_**_**_******Author's Notes:**This will be a full length AU fic and will be posted up here as I finish and my lovely, amazing beta, **kathecello, **cleans them up! Warnings for the whole story: general adult themes, swearing, mentions of child abuse, drug use/abuse, graphic sex, and violence. Rating has gone up.****_**_**_**_**_**_**_**_

_**_**_**_**_**_**_**_****Here we go everyone. First off I realize a bunch of the Institutes have been listed by this point and since I had them all named with locations and a couple notes in my own notes I thought you might be interested. The list of all 26 are now posted on the Ashes blog. You can find it in the masterpost. Pick and Institute! Pick a shift! Leave them in the blog ask box; I get bored and like to doodle =] (heartoutofashes . tumblr . com). Enjoy and review, you are all great.  
><strong>**_**_**_**_**_**_**_**_

_**How to Build a Heart out of Ashes: **Haze_

_by Teumessian_

The first thing John did after reading the letter was tell Sherlock it was going to be okay, in a very calm and steady voice, even as rage flooded his system. He brought Sherlock a glass of water to clear his mouth, and helped him onto his bed. He tucked the blanket over his best friend and slipped the horrible letters into his back pocket. If Sherlock noticed he didn't say anything, but then, he had disappeared into his mind a while ago.

"Sherlock, I'm going to be right back," John said, waiting for a response.

None came. John's insides ached and he reached out to touch Sherlock's shoulder reassuringly, but the Changeling flinched and John's throat tightened painfully. He swallowed and after a moment's hesitation he laid his palm on Sherlock's shoulder, who thankfully didn't turn away. He didn't make any response at all, just stared blankly across the room.

"I'm just going to be right back," John reiterated anyway.

Then he quickly slipped into the hallway and into his own room. Without Sherlock to protect from his anger, fury hardened his features. He wanted to break things—he'd never held a gun but at the moment he would greatly enjoy access to one. Instead of giving in to these urges, however, John steeled himself, knowing what he had to do.

He pulled out his mobile and scrolled through his contacts. He hit send and put the phone to his ear. He also pulled the letters out of his pocket and stared at them, gaze tinted red, as the phone began to ring. The paper crinkled with how tightly his fingers clenched them. There was a click as his call was answered.

"John?" a familiar voice greeted.

There were very few people who had access to the personal number of the most powerful man in Britain. However, John Watson was one of them. John didn't waste any time with formalities.

"Mycroft, we got a letter—it was delivered by the one behind the Wanderer's case. He found your father. Now the bastard is trying to come back for Sherlock."

. . .

"Don't worry, John. My people are going to be watching," Mycroft assured the furious boy on the line.

Anthea reentered the room, face serious. Mycroft's stomach dropped.

"Good," John said roughly.

Mycroft leaned back at his desk, watching his assistant with a growing acceptance of the truth. He hadn't wanted to believe this, John's explanation about how the mastermind behind the false Wanderings seemed to have noticed Sherlock, and had triggered the absolute worst possible scenario. But he'd been working with Anthea for a very long time now, and he could read the truth on her face.

"Call me the second anything changes or if anything happens," Mycroft instructed.

"Right," John's tight voice responded.

Mycroft forced himself to sound sure and not to pause.

"It's all going to be okay, John."

There was silence on the line, and then there was a click as the young Changeling disconnected. John had a keen head on him and Mycroft accepted the fact that John probably didn't believe him.

He lowered his phone and leaned forward, elbows on the desk, chin resting on his thumbs, fingers pressed together before his lips. He paused a moment before working up the strength to look at the brunette aide.

"I checked like you asked me, sir," she said.

Mycroft stared ahead, slideshow of the past playing before his eyes.

"And?" he asked, already knowing the worst.

"Nobody seems to know where he is… Sigur Holmes has dropped off the map, sir."

Mycroft's lips pressed together and he continued to stare ahead. Seconds dragged by.

"What are we going to do, sir?"

Mycroft's eyes narrowed and visible menace settled on his shoulders. He was not a child this time, certainly not.

"We are going to find him… and make him disappear," Mycroft stated. "I will not fail my brother again."

. . .

The next few days were absolute torture. Despite Mycroft's assurances, John was absolutely wired. Sherlock was not coping well. He usually stared into oblivion, every once in a while breaking into a panic, clutching at his head or his scars—and John had no idea how to stop it. He wasn't himself; he was unreachable.

John was fairly sure Sherlock hadn't slept in three days and had little more than the cups of tea and water John tricked him into drinking while he zoned out. He'd managed to get him to choke down a few biscuits yesterday afternoon, but this was hardly a sustainable pattern.

He had convinced Sherlock to go to class that morning, if only to get him out of his room and breathe a little fresh air. He'd given Sherlock a lot of logical reasons, and Sherlock had seemed better. His eyes were clearer, sharper, motivated. He was almost totally coherent. It should have encouraged John, but it was such a thin mask over the mounting, manic anxiety it made John so nervous that he couldn't even remember what Professor Highland had said in Intro lecture five minutes previously. He rushed out of class the second the bell rang.

Normally he would have headed back towards the north corridor to head straight down to the changing booths to shift for his speech class, but today he took a detour through the south corridor, knowing it passed by Sherlock's history class room.

Half way down the corridor John spotted Greg and flagged him down.

"Greg!" John called.

Greg smiled as they moved out of the flow of traffic.

"John! What's up?" he asked.

John shifted his weight, left hand clenching nervously.

"Have you seen, Sherlock?" John asked, as he and Greg shared a history course.

Greg shook his head.

'No, he wasn't in class today," he explained.

John's own anxiety ratcheted up about four notches. He'd walked with Sherlock across campus until they split apart, John to go to Intro and Sherlock to go, presumably, to history. Why hadn't he gone? He'd given John every sign that he was actually going to go. John immediately reached for his mobile and opened a new text message.

Greg seemed to notice his distress.

"Everything okay?" he asked. "The two of you have seemed off the past couple days."

**Where are you? Are you okay? **John typed and hit send.

The question finally reached him after a short delay and he answered with furrowed brows.

"Oh, um, there have just been some family issues," John muttered.

His phone buzzed and he instantly opened the text, chest loosening just a bit when he saw it was from Sherlock.

**In 631A. I'm fime.**

The anxiety returned in full force.

Greg was nodding.

"Oh, yeah? I'm sorry. Are your families' really religious or something?"

Fime? Sherlock _never _misspelled in a word—basically had a dictionary stored in his brain—and rarely used anything less than eloquent complete sentences, unless he was being demanding. He also never left off his characteristic signoff. It just didn't happen.

John barely heard Greg, let alone comprehended the implication of his words. He shook his head and looked up at his friend.

"I'm sorry, what…?" but his worries were overwhelming. "Er, I'm sorry, Greg. I have to go."

Then John was sweeping down the corridor, not even noticing how Greg was looking at him like he was a crazy person—maybe he was, but he wasn't willing to risk it.

He forced himself to walk at a pace slower than a run all the way back to A Wing. If he ran he would have to admit he was panicking. It felt like it took days to get to the sixth floor landing but finally he stood in front of the door that read 631A and then his hand was on the door knob. He didn't knock, but when he gripped the knob it didn't turn. Sherlock had locked the door.

"Sherlock!" John called through the wood, but there was no response.

John's heart began to pound against his ribs.

"_Jesus Christ… oh, dear god, no," _John breathed as he began to rattle the knob violently.

He couldn't have failed already. This couldn't be happening.

Three seconds later John snapped. The knobs were old; the locks were weak. John leaned back and then rammed forward, just beside the door frame. The flimsy lock gave way under his shoulder, and John caught the knob to stop the door from slamming into the wall.

Now, John had been expecting the worst. His worries for Sherlock had painted a horrible image of what his friend's father would do to him if John couldn't' stop him, if he got past Mycroft. Yes, John was worried about what was coming for Sherlock from the outside world, but John still had made a horrible mistake when he neglected to consider what Sherlock could do to _himself, _which was obviously a factor, because John felt like his world was splintering.

John's hand went up to fist over his mouth.

"J-_Jesus Christ,_" he moaned around his hand.

He couldn't breathe! He was choking.

His best friend was lying slack against his bed. John was seeing in fragments. There was a belt loosened and resting around Sherlock's left wrist. There was a clear vial on the floor with clear liquid inside. John had seen ones like it before—in the clinic. Why did Sherlock have that? Subconsciously, John must have been avoiding the final horrific piece of the picture but there was no denying the presence of the syringe on the floor, hypodermic needle glinting in the light.

John was stumbling forward. Sherlock was so very pale. What had he done to himself! Sherlock's right hand rested in the crook of his elbow. He looked so limp, curls lying against lifelessly against his forehead, dark eyelashes brushing his cheeks.

"Sherlock! Sherlock!" John tried to rouse him; his skin was clammy against John's hands.

Did he overdose? Was John too late?

He grabbed the abandoned vial—Morphine solution. There was still a lot left but it was probably full when Sherlock got—stole—it, and John didn't know how much it would take anyway. He was still shaking Sherlock and he'd never felt so damned helpless in his life. Sherlock could be _dying. _He cast the vial aside, it clattered loudly on the floor, and mumbled Sherlock's name on repeat as he awkwardly worked to pull his mumble out of his pocket to call 999.

"John…?" a confused murmur hit him like a freight train.

His head snapped up and he nearly dropped his mobile.

Sherlock's pupils were pinpoints in his ice-blue eyes, the whole sky was visible in his expansive irises. They were empty but fragile.

"Sherlock, I'm calling an ambulance. Just hold on, damnit," John said, trying to sound stronger than he felt.

A limp hand reached out to his mobile, revealing the red mark in his skin and making John's throat close up again.

"N-no. Took the right amount. Just… just didn't want to be scared anymore," Sherlock slurred. "It's okay."

Sherlock stared blankly at the ground and John stared at his face, seconds ticking away with his fear for Sherlock's life. The loss was quickly being balanced out by anger and drowning sorrow. Finally the trio of emotions caused him to crack.

"No it's _not_, Sherlock!" John shouted, suddenly, startling the drug fogged Changeling. "You can't DO this! You could _kill _yourself, you… you idiot!"

If felt like there was glass in his oesophagus and chilli powder in his eyes. John's anger, fear and sadness flashing like fire against Sherlock's drugged mind completely broke his stupor and the adverse side effects began to kick. He was hyperventilating, eyes wide, arms hugging his body. Sweat broke out on his forehead.

"I-I'm scared, John…! I'm so afraid… I just wanted the fear to go away, John…! He's all I can see. He's all I can see…" Sherlock moaned, fingers spasming over the scars they both knew hid beneath the thin fabric of his shirt, eyes squeezing shut. "I know he's coming. I just wanted the fear to go away… but I'm still so scared. I don't want to be scared. No one saves me… nobody ever came."

Sherlock was slipping into true hysterics.

John's face was wet. He was crying, really crying. A choked sob broke free as John dropped his mobile and reached for Sherlock. He grabbed his best friend and pulled him sideways, close. He expected him to resist, but instead he pushed forward, into John's chest. John fell back, hitting the bed frame painfully but he didn't care. Sherlock's hands fisted in John's shirt. His arms barred like steel around Sherlock's back. Their white school shirts wrinkled and shifted. John could feel the raised, ropy flesh of the scars under his fingers through the fabric; he didn't move his hand away from them though. John buried his face in the crook of Sherlock's neck. John realized he was speaking.

"_God… god damnit… _I'm here. I won't let him hurt you. I swear to god, Sherlock, he will never hurt you again. I promise I will protect you. I promise, Sherlock…" John rambled on and on.

John felt Sherlock's rapid heart beating violently through his back and against John's forearm. He was shaking, breath shallow—side effects of the morphine. Why was this happening? Why did this have to happen to Sherlock! It wasn't fair! It wasn't the first or last time John would think this. He rocked them back and forth. He continued to whisper pathetic reassurances. He wanted to be furious—wrath was powerful, like being more furiously angry at Sigur Holmes in this moment would lessen the pain, but he couldn't even pretend that was his primary emotion now. All he felt was crippling sadness and frustration—complete helplessness. He wished he could be stronger—solid and strong for Sherlock, but he knew the tears he couldn't hold back were dripping from his nose and chin onto Sherlock's shoulder, and he couldn't even manage to keep it together.

"Never again, Sherlock. Don't ever do this again. I promise—I won't let anything happen to you. Do you hear me? I _won't_!" John vowed and crushed Sherlock even closer to him. "Never. Again."

John's hand was cradling Sherlock's head as they rocked and rocked, limbs twisted and John trying to stop them from both falling apart completely.

. . .

Sherlock reverted to basically the same state he'd been in before the morphine episode in the days following. His arms bandaged, he slipped back into oblivion. Well there were two things that could be construed as a change. First, John managed to wring a promise out of Sherlock once he was sober. He made him swear he wouldn't mess with the morphine again. The promise wasn't worth much, nor was it that whole hearted, but it was something. The other change seemed to be that Sherlock appeared to be now using John as a coping strategy in some form. It wasn't really noticeable at first, he still barely said anything or even acknowledged John most of the time, but when John had to go to class, or got up to get food, or anything else, Sherlock would stir.

John's hand was constantly on his phone—waiting and checking for the phone call that would tell him this was over. Then Sherlock could return to himself, but the call didn't come and John's unease and frustration rose in equal measure. "The most powerful man in Britain"… fat lot of good that title was doing. He couldn't even find one sick bastard. John's eyes couldn't help but flick up towards the centre of the web and the mutilated name there, and think that whoever it was had a hand in making sure Mycroft remained unsuccessful.

John was doing some homework on Sherlock's unused desk when someone knocked lightly on the door. John rose and crossed the small room and then opened the door half way. The familiar face of Mrs. Hudson met him.

After the incident, John realized he couldn't handle all this on his own, and after some agonizing deliberation he had recruited Mrs. Hudson, who actually seemed to already understand far more than John expected when he'd hinted at the problem. Though, she had been at the Institute when Sherlock arrived, running the primary dorms at that time. John wasn't surprised that she, and probably a few other key staff members, were informed about Sherlock's situation.

Mrs. Hudson had taken to checking in on Sherlock for John when he was in class—both of them had given up on trying to get Sherlock to attend his own classes for the time being.

"Hello, dearest," she greeted.

John gave her a tight smile in return and made to join her in the hallway.

"John…?" a concerned voice called to him from across the room.

John turned to see blue eyes peeking out from Sherlock's duvet, lightly confused.

"It's okay, Sherlock. It's just Mrs. Hudson. I'll be back in a moment," John murmured.

Once he was out in the hall, John gently shut the door behind him.

"How is he doing? Mrs. Hudson asked softly.

John shrugged, face haggard.

"No better, no worse," John said.

Mrs. Hudson's kind face was soaked with sympathy.

"Poor soul. I'm so sorry both of you are having to go through this," Mrs. Hudson cooed. "Has he eaten today? I brought some titbits."

She held up a plate of cheese and crackers.

"No, not yet. Thank you. Hopefully I can trick him into eating something."

Mrs. Hudson handed over the plate with a small smile.

"You know, he's always been impossible with food. When he was small I used to have to take away his microscope until he listened to me, just to get him to eat a bit of supper."

John smiled fondly.

"He's a handful now. I can't imagine how he was at age six," John said.

Mrs. Hudson chuckled.

"Oh, you should have seen the shouting matches, my dear! Always at each other's throats we were, but you would have been so surprised at the way he'd act if any of the other children did anything nasty to me. It was a little hypocritical but endearing none the less," she said, eyes filled with memories.

John had to smile at that. Sherlock was so much more human than he gave himself credit for.

"You have been so good with all of this, John, dear. I don't know what he'd be like if you hadn't come along and had been here for him when you were."

The smile dropped off John's face and he found he could only nod.

"Thanks for bring this," John said, raising the plate a touch.

"Of course, sweetheart," she said. "Don't hesitate to call if you need anything."

"I won't," John said.

. . .

By the next day, though, John had to break the cycle. Sherlock was trembling by the time John got back from class, and John was feeling a little shaky himself. He hadn't shifted in four days and for Sherlock it had been even longer.

"Sherlock," John said as he crossed the room. "You need to exercise your shift. It's been nearly a week."

He didn't say anything but he pulled the duvet tight around him, but the childish reaction was actually a good sign.

"Come on," John said, placing his hand on Sherlock's shoulder. "We'll just take a run along the tree line. The fresh air will do you some good."

Sherlock rolled his eyes dramatically but then he threw the covers away from himself and stumbled towards the door. John sighed in relief.

He did however pull out his phone and address a text to Greg and Molly. He figured it would be good for Sherlock to be around some familiar people.

It started off well, it really did. Sherlock didn't seem particularly pleased when the white shepherd and small rabbit appeared, but again, John was under the impression that annoyance was better than fear or the numb emptiness that Sherlock had been displaying of late.

**Hello! **_Contentment. _**Little run, then?** Greg said as he closed in on the wolf and the panther.

John bobbed his head.

**Yeah, just along the tree line.**

Molly's ears waved but if either of them thought the distinction was strange they chose not to mention it.

Even after they began to move it seemed to be going well. Sherlock loped along at an easy pace next to John, Greg in front and Molly just behind, but then John noticed the slowly mounting agitation emanating from Sherlock. The feline's breath began to speed up and his pace quickened. When John looked at him his whiskers were twitching madly and his eyes were wide. Then John felt the terror break loose.

**Sherlock…** John tried to connect but it was too late.

The fear and anxiety were feeding into each other, growing rapidly. It took John far too long and by the time he could start to respond, Sherlock was in one of his full blown panic attacks, and this time instead of curling in on himself like he had in human form, he would try and use his panther body to out run it. He veered to the right, aiming towards the heart of the forest.

**Sherlock!** John shouted.

John barked; if he had been human it surely would have been a curse. As he turned to pursue, Greg and Molly became aware of the shift in direction.

**John!** Molly asked in confusion, looking for an explanation.

**What's going on!** Greg added.

But John had no time to answer as he shot off after Sherlock, who was now sprinting through the trees, leaving his friends no choice but to run after him.

John and Greg had no difficulty keeping up with Sherlock, but they were getting deeper and deeper into the woods and Molly was lagging behind.

**What's happening, John? **_Confusion._ Greg's voice rung in his head as John leaped over a log after the dark, retreating shape.

**Panic attack.** John said simply.

Molly's feather thoughts touched his mind.

**Panic attack?**

Her voice already sounded a little distant. John didn't answer.

They ran and ran, but Sherlock's shift wasn't built for stamina and soon his ribs were heaving for breath and a little white foam had gathered in the corners of his mouth. He wasn't responding to any of John's calls, no matter what he said. The sound of three sets of paws drumming on the earth accompanied his harsh breathing.

**Sherlock! You have to stop!**

Now John was starting to panic too. It was getting dark and there was something wrong—very, very wrong. Sherlock's wide eyes were trained forward but John's were flashing to every bush, every tree, each shadow. His eyes were wide, too. His instincts were _screaming_. Sherlock needed to know: they needed to get out of here, now!

**Sherlock, stop! We have to—**

John never finished his sentence.

**What are you running from, my dear Sherlock?**

The voice was deep and smooth but something sharp and dangerous lay hidden beneath it, like a blade swaddled in black velvet.

Sherlock's reaction was so immediate and powerful it even affected John—the terror and shock was like a lance in his mind. The panther stopped suddenly enough that the canines overshot him before they could stop. It was clear that the voice had been broadcast to all of them because all three of their heads were whipping from side to side, trying to locate the source, and Molly's voice, now clearer as she began to catch up, sounded in their minds.

_Fear. _**Who is that?**

_Shit! This was not good! _John thought. Molly wouldn't stand a chance.

Even though she hadn't witnessed Sherlock's reaction to it, the menace in the voice was enough to frighten her. Greg's voice chimed in, too.

_Shock. _**What's going on? **_Lost._

It was too much for just a second, but then the switch flipped and a deadly calm settled over John's body.

_Danger. _**Sherlock's father. **_Hate. _**Molly, go back! **_Urgency._

Growls started to rip from John's throat, aggression rolling off his body in waves as he searched for the still unseen enemy. Sherlock was a shaking mess on the forest floor and Greg's eyes were sliding between them.

_Fury. _**Molly, get help! **_Dread._

Greg was putting the pieces together, at least enough of them to realize the gravity of the situation they were currently caught in.

**B-but… **_Hesitation._ Molly protested leaving them.

Greg's large ears flattened against his head and his eyes snapped to a shadow hidden in the trees. A great shape was approaching and he was the first to see it.

_ Awe. _**Molly, **_**run! **__Stress._ Greg shouted, in concern.

Then Sherlock saw the beast and a horrible cry broke from his lungs.

John knew it wasn't fair, and probably wrong. He should have told Greg to run with Molly, to escape, but he had no delusions of being able to stop the monster approaching them now on his own.

_Desperation. _**Greg, don't let him get to Sherlock.**

Greg's eyes snapped back and forth, from the shrouded beast back to the quivery black shape and he hesitated, but then his tail straightened and he matched John's aggressive stance.

**Right…**

Then a giant feline emerged into the twilight and John actually recoiled as Sherlock's turmoil buffeted his mind. The African lion's head was held higher than any wild lion would hold itself, posture oozing pride and disdain. His mane was tinged with darkness against the gold of the creature's pelt; even in the dusk it glowed. John then locked eyes with the Changeling that he'd always know was Sigur Holmes, father of Sherlock Holmes and the object of the genius' only nightmares. His eyes were full of cold fire, cruel and venomous.

Greg was growling defensively, but the sounds were _nothing _in comparison to the violent, lupine snarls shredding John's throat, exploding out of him like thunder, face twisted into a terrible mask of determined eyes, curled lips and sharp teeth. The lion's eyes narrowed.

**You… must be John Watson. I've been told about you. I know you must have some delusions of importance, what with that flimsy bond it is said you share with Sherlock, but that means nothing to me. This is matter between my son and I—move.**

The words were steeped in condescension and like _hell _John was moving one centimetre. With a snarling bark John opened his mind at Sigur Holmes and though he didn't bother to formulate words the floodgates were opened and John fired every tiny speck of fury, rage and absolute and all consuming _hate _at the man he'd never met before but loathed more than he'd loathed any other person in his life to this point in his life _combined. _It was a torrent, a hurricane, a tempest likes of which John didn't even know he had it in himself to possess.

To his credit, Holmes only narrowed his eyes once more and laid his ears flat against his head, holding his ground but John had no doubt he felt the storm.

_**HOW!**_ John finally spat one word, stepping more fully in front of Sherlock.

The king of beasts' tail lashed.

**How did I get here? How did I sleep past my meddlesome eldest son?** he translated from John's abridged question. **I won't deny I had help from a new… friend, who not only informed me of my son's growth and brilliance, and certain **_**poor **_**influences that have been acting upon him of late,** he said, baring his fangs directly at John, who snarled right back. **But he also recommended I play to Mycroft's weakest points, and stay in his blind spot. It's a nearly impossible task to survey every wood in Britain.**

So he'd been travelling in shifted form. John had to admit it was clever, unexpected, but right now that thought was only secondary to John realizing that Sigur was fully focused on him, leaving himself open to Greg.

_Violence. _**Now!** _Blood._ John shot at Greg, making sure his intent was clear, forcing himself to keep eye contact with the horrible man as to not give himself away.

Greg pounded forward, lunging for Holmes' throat. The beast was more aware, and faster, than John had expected and before John could even leap to the aid of the snowy shepherd, a brick heavy paw flashed out to collide with the side of Greg's skull. To obtain the necessary speed, Holmes had hit with the back of his paw, but even though there were no claws the blow was extremely powerful.

**Greg!** John shouted, horrified, as the white shape abruptly switched direction, shoulder meeting the gnarled roots of a tree with an awful thud.

John heard Sherlock cry out in startled _terror _at the sound and sight of violence. Greg lay limp on the ground, out cold. John resisted the urge to go to him, forcing his paws to stay rooted, stay a shield for Sherlock.

**Sherlock! **_**Sherlock!**_ John tried to get his attention. **Sherlock, you need to **_**run**_**. Get away from here! I'll hold him off!**

John had promised. He'd promised to protect him.

The panther, however, was totally paralysed, wide eyes glued to the demon from his past returned to get him.

_**Please, Sherlock...**_**!** John begged as the fearsome lion began to approach.

John wouldn't let him get to Sherlock. He would _die _before he let that happen. Unfortunately, at this point that was a distinct possibility. John knew Greg had been nothing more than a physical obstacle for Sigur Holmes. John was not so lucky. He could see in the callous glare that when it came to John it was personal. He would suffer.

**I'm going to give you one last chance, John Watson. Move out of my way or you will pay with your **_**blood**_**.** His deep voice was steeped in hate.

**Sherlock, RUN!**

Sigur snarled, obviously realising his threatening warning was being completely ignored. John wasn't even looking at him. It was game over.

Sherlock wasn't going to run. He was in pieces and there was no way he was going to pull himself together to help John save him, and John knew he couldn't overpower the monster. Optimistically the lion shift weighed four times as much as John, at least, and he had that much more strength. All John could hope to do now was try to make sure help found them before it was too late. It had to be coming—it just had to.

With one last defiant glare John inhaled deeply and reared. Then he howled. The sound echoed through the trees, louder and more desperate than John had ever howled before, bursting through the night like the siren it was supposed to be.

John hadn't expected to be spared the razor sharp claws, but that didn't stop his howl from morphing into a strangled, pained cry when they hooked into his skin, ripping upwards, pulling him open. On two legs, John was off balance and easily tossed through the air.

_**JOHN!**_ he heard Sherlock scream his name in terror just before he collided with the trunk of a very solid tree.

A sharp yelp escaped him as his shoulder impacted, Sherlock's panic for John as well as himself consuming his mind for just a millisecond before the left over momentum snapped his head back and slammed it into the unyielding tree bark.

Then the world went black.


	15. Resurrection

_**_**_**_**_**_**_**_**_******Author's Notes:**This will be a full length AU fic and will be posted up here as I finish and my lovely, amazing beta, **kathecello, **cleans them up! Warnings for the whole story: general adult themes, swearing, mentions of child abuse, drug use/abuse, graphic sex, and violence. Rating has gone up.****_**_**_**_**_**_**_**_**_

_**_**_**_**_**_**_**_**_****Posting this early this week. It will probably mean it's going to be a little bit until chapter 16 but I think making you guys wait for this one would be the greater of two evils. I have been getting some really great questions and comments on the blog. It's really fantastic and I hope to keep hearing your thoughts and questions on this world. As always, enjoy and review!  
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_**How to Build a Heart out of Ashes: **__Resurrection_

_by: Teumessian_

**Come now, Sherlock. Enough of this…**

_Jesus Christ…_

The ground was moving, rolling up and down like the deck of a ship tipping over ocean swells. Where… where was he? The earth was cold, very cold, but not all of it. There was this growing wet patch beneath his shoulder and chest, and it was the exact opposite of cold—it burned and it ached, but not as bad as his head which was spinning like a top.

What happened?

It was difficult. It felt like there were bounders weighing down even the smallest of his muscles, but somehow John forced his eyes open enough to see—at least sort of. The forest floor was rocking and his vision was so blurry.

**Really, my son, you are trying my patience…**

There was a white patch across the clearing. It wasn't moving, but his eyes were drawn to the other presences in his proximity. There was a crouched black shape… and a—a gold wraith leaning over the shaking shadow.

John was so confused, brain wrapped in addling fog. He blinked, once, twice to clear his vision and what came into focus first was blue. They were wide, panicked eyes staring directly at him, shoulders hunched, body pressed the ground, head low.

_Sherlock…_

But he wasn't alone. There was the demon written into his DNA hanging over him, whispering terror in his ear, low growl rumbling through the earth.

**Sherlock, shift back now. Let me see how you've grown, my boy.**

Sherlock didn't move. He didn't speak. He couldn't really. John had known that all along. It was too much a part of him—it had shaped him and he could no more move against it than John move against a mountain. He just shook, clinging to the midnight shrouded body that was his last defence against the… the worst.

Yeah, John remembered what the monster wanted, and John had failed to keep it from him, because he knew Sherlock's defence was failing rapidly. Right now he was just a scared child under the wrath of a bastard father. He wasn't going to last—he'd shift back and then… well, John could see it in the blue orbs begging, _begging _for help.

_Sherlock…_

'_No one saves me.'_

He'd promised—he'd promised to protect him.

The lion snarled.

**I said change **_**back!**_** Now, before I lose my patience completely. You know it will only be worse if you push me. You know what will happen if you disobey me again, my son…** the monster hissed.

He was broadcasting his thoughts, or at least making sure John could hear. Maybe he knew John was semiconscious. This was a claim. He wanted John to hear this—that he'd won.

That sick fuck.

Sherlock's mind was still frantic with terror—John thought they might both be consumed by it.

John's chest rose and fell, pained, sting in his shoulder growing but that was clearing his head. He tried to move his paws, sending shooting pain through his limbs and a fresh wave of warmth into the soil. Still, eyes locked on his.

He'd _promised._

**NOW!**

The roar hit John's mind and Sherlock flinched. He was too far gone to even shift back, and Sigur Holmes' patience had run its course. An iron paw rose to fall; John saw the curved daggers glint in the moonlight.

_**John…**_

It was barely a whisper, maybe a goodbye, and then it was as if Sherlock's mind was buckling under the force of fear and the will of his personal monster. He _was_ going to shift.

_No! No! No, Sherlock!_

He had to save Sherlock.

Then a very strange thing came to pass. John's mind burst forth from where he lay struggling to rise on the cold forest floor. Where Sherlock's mind gave, John's rose to support it—pushing with his whole being, stopping his friend from falling, and then John wrapped around him—totally and completely, encasing him in every fibre of his being. He slipped through the cracks, binding them together, and enfolding Sherlock's mind wholly in his own. He poured every reassurance, every good feeling, all the warmth he could muster over the fragile brilliant mind.

_**It's going to be okay…**_ John whispered.

Then John was up, body eager to follow the example of his soul. He caught sight of Sherlock's eyes as he sprung—for the first time since the letter came, they were warm, and calm, if a little dazed.

This time Sigur was caught off guard. The lacerations he'd inflicted on John were less severe than he'd thought, claws having caught in John's thickened winter pelt and thrown him more than ripped him. It had been the impact that stunned and temporarily immobilized him—and this time it was the bastard who was off balance.

He'd aimed for the lion's unflawed face. Then there was impact. John's snapping jaws closed repeatedly over the feline's broad muzzle and brow. With a sick sense of satisfaction, John tasted blood in his mouth.

The beast roared and reared back, recoiling away in pain, throwing John off. John landed on his feet and his injured shoulder screamed and almost gave, but he held himself up, and kept the shield of his mind around Sherlock.

John backed up until he was again a physical barrier as well.

_**John…!**_ Sherlock's voice rung within his head, lost.

Blood was seeping down John's right foreleg, and while, yes, the injury wasn't immediately fatal or immobilizing it was painful and blood loss was going to take its toll if—when—he continued to fight. So again John faced a situation in which his only option was gaining some time.

**No!** Sherlock's confused voice begged.

John poured in some more reassurance.

**Shh… it's going to be okay. If I can't stop him you can run. You will run.** John told him, forcing a smile into his voice, ignoring the way Sherlock's mind was rebelling against his plan.

Unfortunately, Sigur was recovering quickly from the shock and pain. Drops of blood hit John's face as the monster shook his heavy head, now marred with a number of puncture wounds. That at least gave John some pleasure.

His eyes were like the fires of Hell, now. John would be pulverized—no possibility of recovery this time. Though, John guessed this would give them some more time while the lion ripped his body to shreds. The Changeling turned to face him, a good few meters away. John steadied himself, holding his head high. He may only just be a man but if he was going to die he was going to face it. With a perverse irony he realized it was his own father who bred in him such values. Well, his would have to make up for Sherlock's shitty one. John guessed their might be something to that whole balance nonsense after all.

Time seemed to slow as John saw Sigur's muscles rippling like liquid steel, preparing to launch. He felt Sherlock behind him, almost half beneath him. John didn't know if it was intentional or reflex, but as he slid a paw back to brace himself, it encountered a thick black tail, which quickly ensnared it. There was a little pulse and John felt his mind wrap even tighter around Sherlock's.

_**Don't let go…**_ John whispered into Sherlock as he bared his teeth a second before the inevitable.

The lion leaped and John tensed for impact, hoping to use some of the force to roll them away from Sherlock. Maybe he could hold out for a little while. He would put up as much of a fight as he could. He had to try. John snarled.

_**JOHN, DUCK!**_ A voice screamed in his head.

From out of the trees, there was a new flash of gold flying through the air. John's reflexes kicked in and he dropped, back, basically crushing Sherlock and himself to the ground.

The two gilded beasts collided, the newcomer impacting from and angle. They both fell from the air, roars and snarls rising to a cacophony as they hit the ground.

**Mycroft!** John shouted, eyes widening.

Then there were others, many shapes joining them in the moonlight, all converging on Sigur Holmes. Not even the king of beasts could withstand the might of so many. There was a monkey with a syringe, and a gorilla grabbed the monster—in any other circumstance it would have been strange to the point of comedy—but now, as a small shape leapt from the back of a hyena and rammed the hypodermic needle into the foreleg of the beast, all John felt was a dark sense of relief and vindication.

Sherlock's heaving ribs pressed against John, drawing his attention. They were both breathing hard. Sherlock was till wide eyed and trembling but as John's complete occupation of his mind began to fade, the fear didn't return, only a deep sense of shock and disbelief.

**It's all over, Sherlock.** John said.

He tried to stand but his head spun, and he realized it had been adrenaline alone keeping him upright. John blinked, vision going fuzzy once more.

**John!** Sherlock's concerned voice touched his muddled mind.

**I… I told you he wouldn't get you…**

John swayed. The relief was overwhelming—as was the blood loss. Sherlock was safe, though. The bastard would never touch him again.

John was only vaguely aware when he keeled over and hit the earth, necessity no longer forcing him into consciousness. He gratefully let the darkness close in around him. Sherlock's presence was there at the edge of his mind, fearful and calling.

**It's all going to be okay… it's over…** John assured.

Even shifted, bleeding and broken, there was a smile on John's face as he slipped into blissful oblivion.

. . .

When John came to he was in a very white room that smelled familiar—like antiseptic. He recognized the clinic, Baker's training hospital. The dripping of an IV was the only noise in the room. John inhaled and stared, confused, at the ceiling. There was pressure and a tugging sensation when he breathed. John's brow furrowed as he tried to organize his thoughts.

"You sustained a number of lacerations across your right pectoral up to your shoulder. You experienced moderate blood loss, but not enough to warrant a blood transfusion and now a saline solution is being administered intravenously to make up for lost blood volume. You have fourteen stitches between the lacerations—the doctor says there is little to no muscle damage and all of the wounds should heal quickly if taken care of properly. You also sustained a number of contusions to your left side as well as a few other mild bruises. You don't have a concussion. Estimated complete recovery time is between one and a half and two weeks."

Well that would explain the restrains around his chest. He was firmly bandaged in sterile, elastic wrappings.

John turned his head to find the source of the voice; it wasn't far. Sherlock was tucked into an uncomfortable visitor's chair. His knees were pulled up to his chest where his arms encircled them. He was staring right at John, face masked. John saw the grey sky and pouring rain outside the window behind him.

"Sherlock," John greeted with a weak smile. "Are you okay?"

The young genius raised an eyebrow.

"Of course, I'm not the one in the hospital bed," Sherlock pointed out.

John shimmied up so he was more sitting than lying down.

"Oh, I'm fine," John said.

Sherlock had basically just told him as much in a lot more words.

"He could have killed you," Sherlock said, without any inflection, just one of his straightforward facts. "You could have died."

John looked himself over, catching a glimpse of the white bandages under the silly hospital smock they'd put him in.

"Well, I didn't," John pointed out.

Sherlock's brow furrowed and John realized in some way that was foreign enough to confuse him, he felt guilty—a completely new emotion for the young Changeling and he didn't know how to respond to it, but after all he'd been through John wouldn't stand for adding guilt to the cocktail of things he must be sussing out in that big brain of his.

"John, I…" Sherlock started but John cut him off.

"Look, Sherlock, I made a promise. It's over now," John said, obviously meaning the conversation as well as the event.

If one of them had a problem then it was the other's problem, too, John thought. He didn't know when that fact had become the truth, but there was no denying it now.

Sherlock's eyes widened for a moment, but then there was understanding. Sherlock looked like he was about to say something else, but then his gaze snapped to the open door over John's shoulder and his face curled into a displeased glare and his mouth snapped shut.

John quickly followed his eyes to see Mycroft Holmes entering the room, damp umbrella tucked under his arm.

"John, I'm glad to see you're awake," Mycroft said cordially.

John responded with a tight grin.

"I'm a quick healer," he said.

Mycroft pursed his lips, pausing a second.

"I want to speak to you both about what happened today in—"

Mycroft was cut off by the sound of a chair scraping loudly against the linoleum as Sherlock quickly evacuated it.

"Sherlock?" John asked, confused.

Sherlock sped around the bed and blew past his brother to escape into the hall. It wasn't uncommon for Sherlock to respond in such a childish manner when it came to Mycroft, but John had thought in light of recent events and Mycroft's key role in them, he might have at least given his brother a chance this time.

"Sherlock!" John called after him but he was long gone.

John sighed and scowled, chest stinging from when he sat up to call after the absent Changeling.

"Damn," he muttered and turned to Mycroft. "I'm sorry. I don't know why he's being like this. If it wasn't for you… just—thank you."

John ended with his focus fully on the elder Holmes. Yes, John normally thought Mycroft was a pompous, interfering git, but when it came to Sherlock's true welfare, they were united.

Mycroft simply leaned back and inhaled.

"If it wasn't for your sacrifice I would have been too late… again," Mycroft said with a disgusted curl of his lips, but then steadied himself and looked back at John. "You owe me nothing, John."

John's face hardened.

"But you weren't too late… we stopped him," John stated.

Mycroft looked at him for a moment, eyes lofty and calculating.

"Indeed… we did," he murmured.

John hesitated but then asked the question in the back of his throat.

"What are you going to do with him?"

Neither man was confused about who they were talking about, not with the cloud that had gathered above them.

"My father will have a long life, but never again will he have the pleasure of seeing the sun, nor will he ever have the opportunity to hurt Sherlock _ever _again," the words were threatening enough on their own, but the icy hint of a smile on his face said so much more.

_Hell can have him when I'm done with him, _John translated.

John gave a single nod—approval.

"Good," he stated harshly.

There was another pause and then John looked back at Mycroft.

"What about the mastermind?" he asked.

Mycroft pursed his lips, fingers tightening on his umbrella.

"Nothing," he hissed. "There is no trace of anything to even link the Wanderings to this event. We don't even know how he found or contacted my father. Obviously my brother was doing better than anyone else could. If anyone is going to figure out who he is and find a way to catch him it will be Sherlock."

Shock took over John's expression.

"He's going to continue working on the case? After what happened?" John asked, flabbergasted.

Mycroft didn't look pleased and he pointedly looked at the side table on the far side of John's bed. John followed his gaze and saw a stack of familiar files resting there. There were more by the chair Sherlock had been occupying just a moment ago.

"Are you honestly surprised, John? I wish he wouldn't but you and I both know if we try and stop him he'll only get himself into worse trouble. You must help him, John. Make sure he doesn't do anything… irreparably stupid," Mycroft said sourly.

John almost laughed. It was true. They did enough idiotic stuff with John's common sense holding them back. Without his or Mycroft's help, John saw Sherlock in a jail cell or worse for pissing off the wrong person on his quest for the truth. John nodded and then there was a knock on the door and a nurse walked into the room.

"Good to see you're awake, Mr. Watson. I just have to check over a few things. Shouldn't take more than a minute," he said with a friendly smile.

Mycroft moved out of the way.

"Right, then, I'll leave you to it. I wish you a speedy recovery, John," Mycroft said as he moved towards the door.

John's fingers clenched.

"Mycroft," John called, and the man paused.

If Sherlock wasn't going to say it someone else had to.

"Wait… maybe—maybe I don't owe you anything, but still, I want to say thank you again, for him," John said with feeling—standing in for his absentee best friend.

Mycroft hesitated, brows knitting a touch, and then he swept out the door.

Sherlock returned only a few minutes later, just after the nurse left. John wondered if he'd waited for the nurse to leave on purpose to avoid seeing John's wounds unbandaged. He didn't blame him. They were a little gruesome. Four ragged lines ran from about ten centimetres under his collar bone up to his shoulder. The middle two had been sealed shut with a couple stitches each where the claws had gone deepest. All things considered, though, they weren't too bad. He'd have scars but not bad ones—nothing like Sherlock's, but they'd both been marked now.

"You know, he did save us," John chided lightly when Sherlock had settled back into his ball on the chair.

He looked a little surprised and he held John's gaze for a moment—strange mix of confusion and conflict in his eyes, before he scowled and put his chin back on his knees.

John drew Sherlock into a conversation about various infections one could get while staying in a hospital. John immediately forced himself to forget all the horrible possibilities when there was another knock on the door. John was pleased when he turned to see Greg and Molly leaning around the door frame. Greg had a little bit of gauze taped to the right side of his forehead but looked fine otherwise.

"Can we come in?" Molly asked nervously.

"Of course," John said, aware of the tension rolling off Sherlock in waves.

They both knew if their friends had ever bought their lie about the lion Wanderer, they certainly didn't now.

"You okay? Both of you?" Greg asked, first to John and then Sherlock.

Sherlock's eyes widened with bewilderment.

"We're okay," John said, worried about Greg. "What about you? I'm so sorry I put you in that situation. I just didn't know what else to do. You too, Molly. I—"

But Greg raised his hand to stop him, shaking his head.

"Nope, none of that," he said. "We're your friends and I'm glad we were there to help. Well… not that I ended up helping much at all… or remembering much at all… with the little concussion," Greg said dryly, rubbing his head. "But like I said, you don't have to say sorry about this stuff to your friends."

He tried to end strongly but it was forced and little awkward, coming out rather amusing, but Molly nodded resolutely at his side.

Sherlock looked at them both like they were crazing and John couldn't help but giggle silently. Trust Sherlock not to even realize that he had friends at all.

"Molly, did you find Mycroft?" John asked out of curiosity, and to give Sherlock a chance to adjust to his new realisation.

Molly nodded, hands clasped in front of her.

"Yes, Mr. Holmes was already to the field with a lot of other people by the time I got there," Molly said, a little shaky at the recent memory. "I told him where to find you all, and I think he heard you howl."

John smiled and Molly looked at the floor. The silence prevailed for a moment.

"Well," Greg cut in. "We wanted to stop in to make sure you were both okay… but I might pass out if I don't eat soon. Want us to bring you guys something?"

"No thanks," John said, maybe it was the pain killers he was surely on but he wasn't hungry in the slightest. He glanced at Sherlock. "You?"

The young Changeling shook his head and then their friends turned to go. Just before Greg got to the door Molly stopped and turned back, ears already pink.

"Um, Sherlock, I just—I just wanted to let you know you can trust us," Molly stuttered.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, obviously not getting what she meant.

"Trust you with what…?" Sherlock asked obliviously.

Molly went even redder and her hands twisted together like her words always did.

"I just meant—I mean you don't have to worry a-about us saying anything about what happened with… with... I just mean we won't say anything," Molly ended in her usual awkward, but well intended tumble.

There was a tense silence and then she turned and bolted. Greg followed with a final wave in their direction. John laid his head back, medication and excitement making him drowsy.

"You don't have to stay," John said, though he had to admit he liked the company.

"I'm fine," Sherlock said and bent to retrieve a file from the stack next to the chair.

John's brow furrowed.

"Sherlock, are you seriously going to start on with the Wanderers case already… at all?" John had to ask.

Sherlock didn't look up from the file.

"The mastermind was testing me with this—he wanted to see if I could be broken," Sherlock stated. "Well… I won't be."

John pressed his lips together.

"A test? Really, Sherlock?" John asked.

Sherlock nodded firmly.

"It's the only reasoning that makes sense. He's not stupid."

The pillow mussed up John's hair as he shook his head. Maybe the mastermind wasn't stupid but he was surely completely insane.

"You're sure that's it?"

Sherlock's lips were a thin line.

"Yes. It has to be," Sherlock hissed. "And he won't beat me."

John realized the file was shaking slightly in his hands and just maybe this was how Sherlock was going to pull himself out of this nightmare. He had to be saved from his own demon so now he was going to find the one who sent it after him. It was a little convoluted, but there were people missing and a determined Sherlock was better than a hopeless one. He'd already told Mycroft he'd help anyway. So John said one word.

"Yeah."

. . .

The doctors let John go a few hours later with a light course of antibiotics, instructions to keep the wounds clean and to change the bandages daily. It was evening by the time John made it back to his room in the set of clothing Mrs. Hudson had brought from his changing booth, Sherlock in tow.

He was grateful to find that nobody had contacted his parents so no damage control was necessary. Thank god he was legally an adult. He really would rather not explain that he'd gotten clawed up by the sick, psychotic, lion father of his best friend.

John immediately went to lie back in his bed, looking forward to just relaxing for a while. Sherlock hadn't stopped talking since the moment they exited the hospital room. He seemed to be trying to push the last week out of existence with the sheer force of words. John didn't stop him—whatever helped—but by this point it was all blurring into white noise

John opened his laptop, deciding to reply to a couple of emails sitting in his inbox from his Normal friends, because honestly after the past few days he could really use some _normal_.

Sherlock kept at it for hours, going orally over every miniscule detail he had accumulated on the false Wanderings. Finally, John decided he needed to succumb to the calls of sleep. He was exhausted again and even if they didn't have class tomorrow it was getting late, nothing but black outside John's window.

He set his laptop on his bedside table and carefully swung his legs over the side of the bed. He went to stretch but remembered his movements were restricted. Sherlock surely noticed him getting ready for bed; his eyes kept flicking nervously over to his fading friend, and his words started to take on a desperate edge.

"Sherlock," John tried to interrupt, but no avail.

"Justin Hara had a Komodo dragon shift—highly rare, largest species of the entire lizard family, and closely related to the monitor lizard," Sherlock rambled up at the ceiling.

"Sherlock," John tried again.

"He was a tenth year—average intelligence, except for in writing based courses where he excelled. He disappeared on October 21, the day of the Autumn Ball—"

"_Sherlock!" _John said, finally raising his voice a touch.

The young genius finally stopped and looked at him.

"What_, _John? _What_?" he snapped, irritated.

John took a calming breath, reminding himself that for once Sherlock was entitled to a few disproportionate emotional responses. John's face stayed totally calm.

"Sherlock, you need to go to bed. I know for a fact you haven't slept in four days," John said, clearly.

The spike in fear in Sherlock's widening eyes was unmistakable. There was a half second's pause.

"No, I'm good, thanks," Sherlock said and made to continue pacing.

John wasn't going to have it, though. His hand caught Sherlock's wrist on instinct. The brunette's head snapped around and he stopped but he didn't flinch, something John thought they were both rather surprised about.

"Sherlock, you _need _to sleep," John reiterated.

The mask was long shattered on Sherlock's face but even if he had managed to sustain it, he couldn't ignore the frantic feelings brushing the borders of his mind. Sherlock's eyes were glassy with exhaustion and fear. His lips trembled with the words he was trying to hold back.

"I can't," he finally said brokenly as he pulled away and kept pacing. "I tried—I mean I started to fall asleep in the hospital. When I'm awake I can lock it all away—but I can't delete it and it all comes back when I sleep, when I can't stop it. It's all I can see, John. Just me, alone in the dark and I… I can't do it. I can't hold it back."

John watched, desolate, as is best friend tugged helplessly at his hair. John would give anything to make it stop. That's probably what prompted him to say what he did next—because it was crazy and he doubted such insanity would have been uttered at any other time.

"I could do it," John said solidly.

That certainly made Sherlock stop in his tracks.

"What?" Sherlock said befuddled

John stuffed his hands in his pockets, as if that was somehow going to balance what he was saying.

"I could do that thing I did in the forest. I… could hold it back for you," John said.

Sherlock had no idea what to say to that, John knew—which was probably best because John did not feel like arguing right now.

"One way or another you need to sleep tonight," John said, resolve growing. "So shift."

Sherlock hesitated.

"Are you sure?" he asked.

To prove just how sure he was, John turned his back, flipped off the light, and began the slow process of removing his shirt without straining his injury.

"Yes, I'm sure, Sherlock. Like I said, you need sleep. This is worth a try," John stated.

There was another second of hesitation and then John heard Sherlock shirking his favourite coat.

Once John was shifted he hopped gingerly up onto his bed, landing unsteadily with the lack of support from his right foreleg. Luckily the bandages were made with Changelings and mind and therefore were extra stretchy so they weren't uncomfortable in his wolf body.

John turned to see Sherlock sitting and watching him intently from the floor, tail twitching, black shadow in the dark room. He was about eye level from where John lay.

**Well… lying down might help with the sleeping.** John pointed out.

Sherlock paused and then grabbed the throw blanket from the food of John's bed in his jaws and pulled it to the floor. Then he lay down and put his heavy head on his paws. John followed suit.

Then John began to reach out, trying to imitate what he did in Baker Forest, but it was more difficult now—fueled by concern instead of all consuming desperation. He could feel Sherlock's mind clearly, apprehensive and curious, but he just couldn't wrap around it like he did before. It remained separate. John was frustrated and after a few minutes Sherlock's curiosity morphed into skepticism.

**It's not working.** Sherlock stated the obvious.

Sherlock was lying down though, and in the dark his exhaustion was asserting itself and with it came the flickering of blood and darkness. His anxiety was rising quickly, too. John _had _to figure this out. He thought back to the woods, evaluating through the haze of pain and adrenaline. Then John remembered how the feeling had surged when Sherlock's tail wrapped around his leg.

**In the forest it worked better… with physical contact.** John forced out, putting it in Sherlock-terms.

Sherlock's ears swivelled forward, head cocking to the side.

**Worth a try.** Sherlock said after a moment, copying John's earlier words.

John resolutely ignored the way his heart beat a little faster when the mattress dipped at Sherlock's added weight. The panther paused; John stayed where he was, letting Sherlock decide the extent of this experiment. John just continued on trying to encircle Sherlock's mind with his own.

Finally Sherlock settled for mirroring John's relaxed, sphinx-like position, just shifted down the bed a bit. Then he leaned over, shoulder and side pressing into John's ribcage. John had been pressing with all his might, and then it was like someone had been holding the door shut and suddenly they jumped out of the way so John tumbled through at the sudden lack of resistance.

The effects were instantaneous and John's mind covered Sherlock completely. John heard him intake a sharp breath of surprise and then felt his body and mind utterly relax as John ventured deeper, saturating his brain with the same calm reassurance he had under the trees.

In seconds Sherlock was barely conscious, sleep deprivation taking its toll. Some of it was feeding back directly into John so he was so relaxed and drowsy that he didn't even jump when suddenly Sherlock was burrowing even closer to him, obviously trying to boost the effects even more, aware or not. John gave in with only mild surprise and rolled on to his side as Sherlock's head wormed between his forelegs, somehow avoiding aggravating his injuries.

When he stilled, Sherlock was curled into a tight ball against John's underbelly, side of his muzzle firmly buried in the ruff of John's neck. The connection had indeed swelled once again and the bond was basically sustaining itself at this point. Sherlock's mind thrummed with ease as he slipped completely from awareness.

John had never felt so relieved in his life. No nightmares would touch them tonight, not when they were protected like this. It might be unconventional, but even the next morning with a completely clear head, John wouldn't regret this solution.

Sherlock's breathing was deep and measured against John's ribcage, soothing after so much fear and pain. They were okay. Once more they were going to be okay.

Just before he drifted off, John tucked his head down so he felt Sherlock's slow breaths tickle the whiskers on his muzzle. Then John joined Sherlock in the blissful serenity of sleep, entwined in both body and mind, and in the aftermath there was at last a moment of peace.


	16. Guardian

_**_**_**_**_**_**_**_**_**_******Author's Notes:**This will be a full length AU fic and will be posted up here as I finish and my lovely, amazing beta, **kathecello, **cleans them up! Warnings for the whole story: general adult themes, swearing, mentions of child abuse, drug use/abuse, graphic sex, and violence. Rating has gone up.****_**_**_**_**_**_**_**_**_  
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_**Hello everyone! Thank you for your patience! University is crazy sometimes boys and girls. Don't take four legitimate classes at once. Take pottery, or a sociology course like a sane person. And holy hell you guys! The questions I have been getting on the blog are absolutely fabulous. Keep them coming! I've posted my favorites or the most informative on the masterpost for those who are interested. Anyway, chapter sixteen! I hope you all enjoy!  
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_**How to Build a Heart out of Ashes: **__Guardian_

_by: Teumessian_

Just the faint glow of dawn lit the room when Sherlock awoke. His body felt strange, and he realized it was probably the side effect of actually having slept deeply and restfully for more than a few hours. He hadn't done that in years, and now he'd done it in John's room—in John's bed. With that thought Sherlock realized his head was resting on a distinctly furless body—his curled knuckles rested on clearly human ribs, because, yes, he no longer had paws either—or a tail, or rotating ears, or whiskers for that matter. Sherlock hesitantly opened his eyes.

His head was on John's left shoulder, the unbandaged one, though he could feel the white strips wrapped around John's chest scratching against his chin. It sent a little spike of pain through Sherlock—seeing John hurt like this, because of him, but mostly he felt an odd and confusing twist in his gut. John had willingly taken an injury for him. He'd stayed, and done so much more.

And Sherlock didn't feel frightened when John touched him—even suddenly. Sherlock didn't _usually _like to be touched by most people. There were times in his past where he'd made exceptions for the sake of scientific curiosity, but at those times he'd always been fully prepared for contact. Sherlock didn't even flinch when John completely surprised him most of the time.

Sherlock had fully intended to continue this level headed, detached analysis of these developments but suddenly John took a deep breath and moved. The arm that had been loose against the bed behind Sherlock tightened in and fingertips brushed Sherlock's lower back—it was like a static shock bouncing up his spine and preventing any continued contemplation. Sherlock fought the urge to move in response. Then John exhaled warm air through the curled strands of Sherlock's hair—which relaxed him as a counterpoint.

Unfortunately, Sherlock was still left with the irreversible awareness of the fact that John was naked. He was too, but for some reason that really wasn't all that important. He was a Changeling; he was accustomed to nudity.

However, there was something different in the faintly tanned skin before his eyes now. John's stomach was flat and his chest was toned from rugby. Sherlock hadn't realized the extent of it as John's body was always hidden under school uniforms and soft jumpers, but even perfectly relaxed the muscles were visible on his abdomen, just a little bit, and there was a pale trail of downy hair starting under his navel and running down—

Sherlock instantly decided distance was paramount to the study of this development. He felt unusual and his head felt cloudy in a way that would have been more familiar if the comparative memories hadn't been deleted a good while ago.

Very carefully, Sherlock extracted himself from the tangle of limbs he'd got himself into. John made a small noise of protest at the loss of heat but he didn't wake. Sherlock quickly slipped into his clothes and went to the door. He hesitated there though, and glanced back at John, still sleeping soundly, before disappearing into the hallway.

. . .

Sherlock seemed to recover faster than anyone who knew him expected. He truly seemed back to his normal, fairly abrasive, self. He was insulting people; he was riling up his professors. He was aggravating Mrs. Hudson. He was going to class, as much as he ever did, and he was eating with John and their friends again. Only John knew that Sherlock hadn't quite recovered completely—not yet at least.

In the weeks after the return and fall of Sigur Holmes, there were nights of fading frequency when John was interrupted by a lightly haunted figure appearing in his room. Sometimes it was while he was studying or on his laptop late at night. Sometimes it was as John was getting ready for bed, as if he'd been waiting for John to do so, but more often than not, John was awoken by the strangely fragile shape at the end of his bed.

"John, I can't sleep," were the only words he would ever say.

Then without a word of commentary, or a noise of protest, they would wordlessly continue the arrangement from that first night. John really should feel more awkward about the whole thing, he thought one night. It's not like he wasn't aware of the fact that he often woke up human—and what that meant. Sherlock was always gone by the time he stirred. John had half woken up once or twice while Sherlock was leaving but for some reason he couldn't bring himself to move, as if Sherlock was a small bird that would start and take off permanently if John startled him in any way. He told himself he was afraid of this because if Sherlock spooked then he'd be facing the nightmares again and as Sherlock's best friend John couldn't let that happen. He just couldn't.

Sherlock was going to get through this—already the visits were getting less frequent, and John would help however Sherlock wanted him to.

About a month after the confrontation in the woods, John quickly made his way up the stairs of A Wing, ginning widely. He'd been unbandaged for a few weeks and was back in top form, shoulder no longer hindering him at all.

John knocked and opened the door of 631A, not waiting for an invitation. If Sherlock didn't want John to come in he locked the door, and then John tried to kick it down because it usually meant Sherlock was doing something ungodly with John's possessions.

Luckily no such bad omen came to pass today and the door opened easily under his hand.

Sherlock looked up from his microscope when John entered, eyebrows knitting at the unusual, glowing smile on his face.

"You're excited about something," he deduced.

John bobbed his head.

"Good one," he teased. "Do you want to know why?"

Sherlock's eyes narrowed and his fingers tightened lightly on the dial used to raise and lower the slides. He didn't answer.

"Because you were wrong, Sherlock," John said gleefully.

This made Sherlock's scowl deepen, but John knew he wouldn't be able to resist bait like that.

"What are you talking about?" he asked shortly.

"I'm talking about the Beatles," John said. "I hope you didn't delete them again."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

"Why…?" he said slowly.

"Because you were _wrong_," John said, and he shouldn't have been _quite _so excited about this but he was only human he spent a whole lot of time with this arrogant bastard.

John cleared his throat, and began to recite a few practiced facts. John had never been so thankful that Professor Highland had a tendency to go off on tangents during his lectures.

"Charles Manson, around the late 1960s, formed the group known as the Manson Family in California. He entertained the idea of an impending apocalyptic race war… which he called Helter Skelter—after the famous Beatles song. Oh, he called the compound the 'Yellow Submarine.'"

Sherlock just stared at him for a moment.

"You said no criminals drew from the Beatles. Well, Manson was a convicted murderer," John said happily, strange for a sentence with the word 'murderer' so prominent.

Sherlock did a good job of masking it on his face, but John could easily tell he was miffed as he went back to his microscope.

"And?" he asked.

John crossed over to the bed and unzipped his backpack to pull out his laptop.

"Well, you can't continue on with this serious gap in knowledge can you?" John said.

Sherlock turned to look at John, and John looked over his extensive Beatles collection. He almost started with 'Come Together' but he didn't want to hear Sherlock point out all of the clear crimes against logic in the song. Instead, John scrolled down to 'Let it Be' and then pressed play.

Sherlock didn't tell him to turn it off, and by the second chorus John suspected he might actually be enjoying it—or at least he was enjoying thoughts of tying it to homicide.

By the third song, and after John had related the Liverpudlian origins of the iconic group, Sherlock moved to join John on the bed to look at the pictures of the band members that John had pulled up on Wikipedia.

Much of the rest of the afternoon was spent in this fashion. Sometimes Sherlock asked a question but mostly he just listened to the music or John's commentary, or they both sat in silence when a particularly good song would play. John ended up leaning against the wall, Sherlock by his side.

"_Anytime you feel the pain… Hey, Jude, refrain. Don't carry the world upon your shoulder_… what?"

Sherlock was staring at John intently.

"You were singing," Sherlock said, as if that warranted the strange intensity in his eyes.

John's lips turned in surprise. He hadn't even realised.

"Oh, sorry," John said, not sure why he was apologising. His voice wasn't _that _bad. "This one is one of my favourites."

Sherlock didn't say anything in return and John's throat worked. Unfortunately the empathetic link was providing no insight or explanation for the unidentified _something _swirling behind the surface of Sherlock's eyes.

Then the song changed and Sherlock turned to narrow his eyes at the laptop.

"These lyrics are grossly inaccurate," he said and paused to listen a moment. "To the point of idiocy. People definitely need more than love—like food, and sleep. _Love _isn't even a necessary to sustain life in the first place."

John rolled his eyes, knowing there was going to be absolutely no convincing Sherlock otherwise. John settled for annoying him instead.

"_There's nothing you can know that isn't known,_" John sang, a little louder than he normally would.

Sherlock's brow furrowed.

"False. That is why people do experiments," Sherlock said.

"_There's nothing you can see that isn't shown,_" John giggled.

"What does that even mean?"

John leaned forward.

"_There's nowhere you're meant to be that isn't where you're meant to be,"_ John grinned.

"No, that's just—"

"_It's EASY…!" _

Sherlock just looked at him like he was crazy, totally lost when his logic was flat out ignored. John thought it was a bit endearing.

"_All you need is love," _John sang, and Sherlock just shook his head.

Then there was a knock on the door, and John moved the laptop to go check it. At this time of day it was probably Mrs. Hudson dropping by to give them a plate of biscuits or tea, always with the warning that it was a one time thing.

"_All you need is love,_" John sung again as he stood.

"Wrong."

"_All you need is love!" _John attempted to drown him out as his hand closed around the doorknob. "_All you need is love. Love—love is all you need…"_

John trailed off as he opened the door. He was sure Sherlock had said something back. The bastard always had to have the last word, but if he did John didn't hear it as he took in the sight in front of him—well, below him actually, because there was currently a primary student sobbing on Sherlock's doorstep.

"Henry?" John recognized the crying child. "What's wrong?"

The loud weeping of the little boy was a strange accompaniment to the uplifting outro of the Beatles' classic. Sherlock was now craning his neck to see what was going on from where he sat on the bed.

"Sammi is gone!" the small child bawled. "She Wandered. Sammi Wandered…!"

John's brow furrowed and he sighed sadly.

Then, a series of habits imprinted on him by his mother took over. John led the crying child into the room and set about getting the lad a cup of tea. It wasn't the first time John was happy that Sherlock had a Bunsen burner and a mini fridge in his room. Leaving milk and sugar in the dorm was always a bit dodgy—John always made Sherlock swear he hadn't done anything to them.

By the time John transferred the steaming mug to Henry's small hands Sherlock had gotten a little more information, under John's demand that he be gentle about it.

Sammi was Henry and Adam's older sister, a university student. She Wandered within the last 24 hours. They found her things in a Changing booth after she failed to meet with Henry that afternoon to take him to ice cream.

"What was her shift again?" Sherlock asked, encroaching upon Henry's personal space.

He flinched under Sherlock's gaze.

"B-b..bush dog," the young Changeling stuttered.

John's brow furrowed from where he leaned against Sherlock's wardrobe, ready to jump in if Sherlock got too obnoxious. He had no idea what a bush dog was.

"Bush dog! _Speothos venaticus_! A canid only found in Central and South America." Sherlock shouted, jumping off the bed and nearly scaring the pants off poor Henry. After Sherlock's epiphany about the nature of the missing Changelings he had memorized the entirety of the endangered species list in detail. "Classified as near threatened. Highly elusive and the only member of its genus. Definitely rare! Oh, they'd want her without a—"

"Sherlock," John called him to focus.

His attention snapped to John with his head cocked in confusion. John looked pointedly at Henry and his quivering bottom lip, obviously in danger of breaking back into hysterical sobs—and then he did.

"S-she was t-taken…? S-someone took S-Sammi!" he wailed. "I want Sammi…!"

Sherlock stared wide eyed at the tragically upset Henry. He had no idea how to react; John was already crossing the room. He knelt in front of the young, splotchy-faced Changeling, took his tea, placed it on the floor and put his hands on the boy's shoulders.

"Henry, it's okay. Sherlock and I will find your sister. That's what all this is for. We're going to find all the false Wanderers, your sister, too," John said soothingly, but sincerely—he meant it.

Henry stilled for a second, searching John's face. Even at such a young age he needed to make sure John wasn't lying. Apparently he found what he was looking for and then suddenly he lunged forward, wrapping his arms tightly around John's neck. John made a couple calming noises and patted him on the back. He caught Sherlock's analytical gaze. He'd been staring.

They both knew they couldn't assure that Sammi would be safe, but for once Sherlock let John say something that wasn't the whole truth. Perhaps he finally realized that sometimes there were words that needed to be said, no matter how difficult or impossible they were to keep. They held each other's eyes as Henry hiccoughed into John's shoulder.

. . .

John and Sherlock took Henry down to Mrs. Hudson, John trying his best not to fall down the stairs with an armful of crying primary student.

Then it was straight into Baker Forest. This was the earliest they'd heard of a Wandering since Justin, and they weren't going to let the opportunity go to waste. John was severely uneasy. Sherlock assured him that Sammi's Wandering had nothing to do with their connection to the Knight brothers. Sammi was the only bush dog shift in all of Great Britain; he had checked with Mycroft on their way to the booths. It was completely and independently logical that she would be taken.

John still felt sick about the whole thing, but he quickly pushed it out of his mind with his nose to the ground.

They followed Sammi's scent from the booth and into the forest, Sherlock following John's measured strides. They traced it east until a slightly familiar scent joined the mix.

**Sherlock, it's that scent, the one we found on the markers.** John said.

Sherlock's ears pricked forward excitedly.

**Are you sure?** he asked as John continued to sniff the area.

The smells painted a picture and sometimes John thought his human form was as good as blind in comparison to this.

**Yes. She met the other mammal here. They… lingered… but there was no struggle.** John concluded, Sherlock committing the notes to memory. **They continued together in that direction.**

John pointed his muzzle still further east. Without a word, Sherlock started off in that direction. They continued on for a long time, following John's nose. They quickly passed the border of Baker Forest and still strode on. It was getting dark when John finally stopped—Sherlock nearly ran into him it was so abrupt.

**Here—something happened here. They stopped.**

And their scents were no longer the only fresh ones to inhale. John snuffled forward, head sweeping in wide arcs. Sherlock was nearly vibrating with apprehension. John was just trying to add it all up.

**Sherlock… there's another Changeling… it smells like a mammal… but off… there were humans, too. And I smell petrol.**

In the dark, John hadn't realized. He'd been so focused on the smells saturating his nasal cavity, but as he moved around a bush everything suddenly fell into place, because John was now standing at the edge of a very narrow dirt road, barely more than a path, but it was easy to put together what happened now. The smell of petrol was strong and the trail ended completely.

**Sherlock, they got into a car or something. This is where the trail ends…** John said, turning back towards the clearing.

Sherlock didn't immediately respond but John could feel his mind working on overdrive. John worked on trying to figure out exactly how many unshifted Changelings or Normals, he wasn't sure which, had been in the clearing. Finally, Sherlock returned from his head.

**I want to collect samples.**

That was all the warning John got before Sherlock shifted.

_**What the hell!**_ John tried to complain but Sherlock obviously could no longer hear him.

A sound of protest burst through his jaw. Sherlock was already picking some moss off the ground.

"John, stop being so pedestrian. It's just the human body," Sherlock chastised. "Now shift out. I need your help."

John's ears flattened against his skull and he backed up a few steps.

_Absolutely not._

Sherlock scowled over his shoulder at John's gut resistance. John realized this was probably a silly line to draw after all the others they ignored out of existence but he held on to it for a little longer.

"John, you are a Changeling. Don't act like a Normal," Sherlock drawled.

Sherlock had a point. It was just… no. John was being ridiculous. There were much bigger things at stake.

With a heavy sigh, John shifted. He felt distinctly uncomfortable, standing there in the middle of the woods, completely starkers except for what would have, to any passer-by, appeared to be a simple blue dog collar with a silver nameplate.

"Fine, what do you want me to do?" John asked Sherlock, who was still crouching with his back to John.

He plucked a piece of moss from a small depression in the ground. Then he stood and began to speak as he turned. John very determinedly kept his gaze at eye level, and realized that this wasn't actually that awkward at all. He'd just expected it to be. This was just Sherlock—strange as ever as he studied a tiny clump of moss.

"I need you to—"

Then Sherlock looked up at John, who was totally relaxed now, and stopped mid-sentence. His throat worked, as if the rest of the words had just gotten stuck there. John raised an eyebrow as it seemed that Sherlock's supercomputer of a brain had just suddenly crashed. Well, they were getting more information in this one day than they had in months; maybe his brain had just overheated.

"Yes?" John prompted.

Then his head shook back and forth; he blinked twice and then a sound escaped Sherlock's lips that could only be described as a verbal malfunction—it wasn't even a word.

"I'm sorry, what?" John asked.

Sherlock's eyes were locked onto his neck, where his marker hung a bit loose. Did he have dirt on his skin? Sherlock blinked and shook his head again.

"I need you to shift back," Sherlock said in a rush, before his systems could fail again, John thought.

"What? Why? I just shifted!" John complained.

"_Because, _John, I need to use a few of your guard hairs to secure the samples to your marker," he said as he turned to look for more samples.

John scowled and crossed his arms over his chest, but the effect was wasted as Sherlock was very clearly not looking at him.

"Then why did you have me shift in the first place!" John complained loudly.

"_I—changed—my—mind," _Sherlock spat, with hostility.

John threw up his arms.

"Jesus Christ, you're completely insufferable sometimes, you know that?" John retaliated, but then shifted, and when he was on four paws his hackles were noticeably raised.

He did however suffer Sherlock plucking out a few hairs from his tail, and if he didn't know better, John would have thought Sherlock's fingers were shaking when they contacted the blue strip around his neck.

. . .

One mid winter day, Molly entered the dining hall with an unmistakable bounce in her step—at least unmistakable for her. Okay, she was smiling and not looking at the ground but that was basically a bounce for her.

She sat down next to Greg and across from John and Sherlock. Mike had been mostly absent since he and Suzie had started getting serious so it was just the four of them. Sherlock had a mug of tea and John and Greg were picking at the pasta on their plates.

"So," Greg started once Molly was settled, "Is everyone still good for the trip into town Friday night?"

Sherlock scowled but he had needed a couple things form town so John had long since used that as leverage to convince Sherlock to accompany them on the proposed pub run they had planned for the end of the week.

"Yeah, of course. We'll be there," John said.

Greg smiled and turned to Molly.

"And you, Molly?" Greg asked.

Molly's face pinkened and she looked down at the table.

"Yes—I mean yeah, but I-ah-wanted to ask—would any of you mind if I brought a… um, friend?"

Greg cocked his head to the side and John's attention focused. Sherlock seemed interested in the ceiling more than the conversation.

"Well, I don't see why not. Friend?" Greg asked.

Molly blushed even more severely and twisted her hands in her skirt.

"Umm… well, my… boyfriend," Molly explained.

Sherlock nodded just slightly—so he'd known from the beginning. Greg and John however were painted with surprise. Greg didn't look excited for her, though, for some reason John couldn't place. John would have to be the excited one then.

"Molly's got a _boyfriend_?" John said, genuine smile splitting his face. "Who's the lucky man?"

Molly grinned up at him.

"He's a Normal who lives in town. He works in IT for the Institute. That's how I met him," Molly explained bashfully. "His name is Jim."


	17. Veils

_**_**_**_**_**_**_**_**_**_**_******Author's Notes:**This will be a full length AU fic and will be posted up here as I finish and my lovely, amazing beta, **kathecello, **cleans them up! Warnings for the whole story: general adult themes, swearing, mentions of child abuse, drug use/abuse, graphic sex, and violence. Rating has gone up.****_**_**_**_**_**_**_**_**_**_  
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_**Hello! This chapter is rated high teen I think. Oh, and I now have an Ao3 account (same penname/username). For those of you who are a fan of my post-Reichenbach fic, it is now posted completely there so you can download it. Ashes is also posted there through 16 and I will be posting new chapters there a few days after I do here, again for those who want to download onto e-readers. As always, I hope to keep hearing from you all as you read! R&R and Enjoy =]  
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_**How to Build a Heart out of Ashes: **__Veils_

_by: Teumessian_

Jim apparently had to work late. He was going to meet Molly, Greg, Sherlock and John at the pub, so Molly said.

John and Greg both ordered a pint of beer. Molly sipped on a pinkish drink that John wasn't sure contained any alcohol at all. Sherlock hadn't ordered anything and his focus skipped around the room. John thought he was fighting fatal boredom by deducing the lives of each bar patron.

To be honest, Greg didn't look particularly thrilled to be in the pub either. A girl at the bar had obviously flirted with him and he hadn't even seemed to notice. This left John and Molly to discuss the animal physiology course they were both trying to get into next term.

Most medical schools had many veterinary programs and most students were smart enough to take advantage of this. It was difficult, if not impossible, to get a job in most medical fields without at least very basic veterinary skills, and if you wanted to work in emergency care it was of paramount importance to have staff capable of treating shifted Changelings.

John was at the bottom of his first pint and Greg was half way through his second when Molly perked up, gaze locking onto the door. She hopped off her tall chair and walked over to meet at man in the tightest pair of jeans John had probably ever seen. He was older than the young Changelings in the bar, most likely in his early twenties and he was wearing a v-neck tee shirt and an easy smile on his face.

Molly led him over to the table, pointing at each of her friends in turn, introducing them. She stopped when she reached the small group.

"Everyone," she said, looking more sure of herself than usual, "This is Jim."

"Hello, I've heard so much about you—all of you," Jim said, pausing strangely in the middle of his sentence, as if he hadn't originally intended for it to be plural.

He smiled amicably, though, and John doubted he deserved the cold reception he was about to receive. Sherlock's gaze flicked over Jim for just a second and then back to a couple holed up in a booth, who he was trying to decide were getting back together for the third or fourth time. Greg just took a heavy swig of his beer. Jim's smile faltered and his gaze settled on Sherlock's complete dismissal.

"Ah… they mean hello," John said, a little irritated at his friends' lack of courtesy.

Then the man's eyes flashed up towards John and for a second he thought there was something there that made his blood run cold, but then John must have been imagining it because the smile and nod he received were warm and clean. John mentally shook his himself and returned the gesture with a tight smile. Jim's gaze lingered for a moment before he turned to Molly with a tender expression.

"I'm sorry, Molls," he said. "I still wanted to stop by to meet your friends, but a bunch of the campus servers are down so I can't stay."

Molly's face fell.

"Wow, dedicated—working on a Friday night," Greg commented, pint in hand, making John want to kick him under the table, but it was a tall table and it would have been completely obvious.

Thankfully, Jim seemed to ignore the comment as he bent to give Molly a goodbye kiss on the cheek, making her blush viciously.

"It was nice meeting you all," Jim said, and then leaned in to shake each of their hands.

Greg shook his hand apathetically but Jim was completely ignored when he reached across the table for Sherlock's. John quickly intervened and grasped Jim's hand solidly. He leaned in for just a second, as if giving another nod of thanks, and then turned to go.

Weird bloke, John thought, but he seemed to make Molly happy.

Once Jim was out the door, Molly turned to the boys with a splitting smile on her face.

"Well, what do you all think of Jim?" Molly asked.

John opened his mouth to give the most positive review he could but he was completely beaten to the punch.

"Gay."

Strange how a single word from Sherlock Holmes had the ability to throw a whole group into chaos.

"What?" Molly squeaked.

"What!" John echoed forcefully.

Greg just choked on his beer.

Sherlock merely continued to focus on the off-and-on couple.

"Jim from IT is homosexual," he confirmed his meaning.

The color drained out of Molly's face.

"He's not," she denied.

John scowled.

"How could you possibly know that?" John asked.

It probably wasn't the right thing to say but he had to know.

Sherlock tore his gaze away from what he obviously thought was a much more interesting puzzle. He rolled his eyes.

"Did none of you see his exposed, designer underwear? The chain around his neck? The product in his hair!" Sherlock said dramatically. "Jimmy is _gay_!"

Greg's eyebrows were threatening to disappear into his hairline.

"That does not mean he's—" John started to protest.

"Oh, also, supported by the fact that he managed to slip his number into John's jacket pocket," Sherlock dropped the final bombshell.

"Yes!" the word slipped gleefully out of Greg's mouth before he caught himself.

It was lost in the chaos as John confirmed Sherlock's statement by removing a slip of paper from his pocket. There was a set of written numbers breaking up the white surface. John felt the beginning of a headache at the base of his skull.

"I told you," Sherlock said.

When John finally looked up, there were tears shining in Molly's eyes and the two _regular _teenage boys began to justifiably panic. Sherlock just sighed heavily, as if this was far more than he should be expected to put up with.

"Y-y-you're just—sometimes you're … just horrible," Molly said passionately, then turned her anger on her appropriately mortified friends. "All of you…!"

A little sob escaped her and her face crumpled before she turned to storm out of the pub, hair swinging angrily and glowing orange under the amber bar lights.

Greg was too shell-shocked to say anything but John turned to Sherlock.

"Sherlock, how could you say all that!" John asked angrily.

Sherlock scowled.

"What? It's better that she not know and it ends with her finding him with another man?" Sherlock asked. "I was doing Molly a favour."

John leaned back in his chair, frustrated.

"Fine, but you could have been a lot gentler," John tried to explain. "You really upset her!"

Obviously Sherlock wasn't really listening anymore, as he glanced at the couple's booth once more and finally muttered 'four' and moved his eyes to the next table.

"Oh, Molly's going to be fine," Sherlock drawled. "Greg is going to ask her out."

John's eyes snapped wide and Greg spat half his mouthful of ale back into his pint. John turned to his silver haired friend.

"You're asking Molly out?" John asked first and then remembered to take another step back. "No… wait, you _fancy _Molly?"

Greg looked like a deer in the headlights.

"I—well, I… um, I—" Greg stumbled into complete incoherency.

Sherlock was leaning on his hand with his elbow on the table as he watched an exchange between a spectacled patron and the bartender.

"Oh, do give him a minute, John. This is all very new for dear Greg," Sherlock said. "He only realized his interest in our Molly when he found out she was taken, and only decided to ask her out a few minutes ago when he realized she would no longer be otherwise committed."

Sherlock finished with less inflection than one would use relating what they had for breakfast. John and Greg momentarily lapsed into awed silence.

Finally Greg spoke.

"Well, I better go find Molly," he said, pulling his coat off the back of his chair.

John nodded at the loose salute Greg gave him as a goodbye.

"Good luck, mate," John said, and Greg nodded once before starting to make his way towards the door and the chilly, night air, leaving John and Sherlock alone at the table.

John sighed and let himself relax a bit, taking a drink of his beer and feeling the carbonation pop on his tongue.

"You know, you _could _stand to be more delicate," John chided, knowing it wouldn't do any good, but feeling like he was obliged to say it anyway.

True to character, Sherlock only curled his lip up in disgust, eyes still trained on the bar.

John leaned his weight on the hard wood table and followed his gaze.

"So," John said, giving in, "Is the one with the glasses sleeping with the bartender?"

Sherlock smirked, obviously pleased at John's own observations as well as his own.

"Yes… but he hasn't told her he's married yet," Sherlock smiled, glancing sidelong at John.

John giggled and brought his pint to his lips.

"Brilliant."

. . .

John was studying on his bed. Cold, winter sunlight filtered through the sixth floor windows. The text book was heavy in John's lap.

There was the click of a turning doorknob. John looked up when his door opened without a knock. It was Sherlock—of course it was.

He strode purposefully into the room. John was well used to such entrances.

"Can I help you with something?" John asked, looking back down at his text.

"I need help with an experiment," Sherlock stated as he moved through the room, voice low.

"Yeah? What kind of experime—" John started but the words died in his throat as he glanced up.

He'd heard Sherlock's footsteps, but he hadn't realized just how close he'd gotten, and he _definitely _hadn't noticed the searing intensity in his blue eyes. There was the familiar dash of uncertainty that Sherlock had only ever shown John, but over that was determination and something… melting, dripping hot.

"Sh-Sherlock?" John stuttered as Sherlock pulled the text book out of his hands and dropped it unceremoniously on the floor.

"I need to do an experiment on the fluxuation of cognitive ability under specific stimuli," Sherlock said, voice completely unlike his usual clipped tone.

John's stomach then swooped violently as the bed dipped under the new weight of Sherlock's knee. The support allowed the pale-skinned teen to move his body right over John's, hovering just a few centimeters above his face—eye to eye. John's heart began to pound.

With each beat John's world quickly shrunk to the sky blue orbs and the body they resided in. He wanted to ask what was going on, but he was completely speechless up until the moment Sherlock's lips finally covered his own.

They were soft, and warmer than John expected. Part of John was in shock, but the much bigger part crackled with heat and it was entirely out of his range of abilities to hold himself still when Sherlock's mouth began to work over his.

John parted his lips and, under whose power he didn't know, their tongues met and his hand shot up to cup Sherlock's neck, thumb tracing along his jaw. Sherlock tasted like tea, but stronger and sweeter, along with something else entirely.

John hummed deeply when their tongues intertwined completely, and Sherlock's hands grasped his shoulders. Long, thin fingers pressed into his skin through his stripy, blue jumper.

When Sherlock pulled away, to John's less than silent protests, John had a tiny flash of clarity that allowed him to wonder, just for a second, what the fuck was going on but then Sherlock's clever tongue traced his jugular vein and all coherent thought was abandoned as that mouth moved over his skin. John couldn't help but use his hands to urge him on, palms pressing into fabric, fingers tracing bones. It just felt too good and the scent of Sherlock was saturating his head as his dark, curly hair was close enough to brush against John's cheek. It was the same smell that John caught on his sheets the nights after Sherlock couldn't sleep and they woke up tangled together, and on the days later when John shifted and lay his lupine head down and the fading scent would just drift in, leading him away.

"Sherlock…" he whispered.

John grasped helplessly at the young genius, hands fisting in his white school shirt to pull Sherlock's lips back up to his own. He outright moaned at the recovered contact and inhaled sharply when Sherlock's hand found its way under John's jumper. He arched into the contact and tried to drag Sherlock even closer. All of John's blood was rushing down to his groin and his head felt like it was filled with helium. He wanted this more than he'd ever wanted anything for himself in his whole life.

"Mmmn… Sherlock," John murmured as teeth sank into John's bottom lip.

John's fingers buried themselves firmly in silky hair and the slide of a violinist's hand from ribs over taught stomach muscles, the way they might play over tuned strings, was the only warning John received before the heel of Sherlock's palm slid unyieldingly over the growing bulge in his jeans.

Surprised, John couldn't restrain himself and bucked up into Sherlock's hand.

"Sherlock!" John nearly shouted as their lips parted with a distinct pop and John gasped wildly as a spike of pleasure shot through his system, and then John woke with a start.

It was barely dawn and John was alone in his room. His heart thundered in his chest and a thin sheen of sweat rested on his brow. His chest rose and fell quickly as he tried to reorganize his flailing mind—images fresh and burned into place.

Sick with dread, John lifted his duvet and groaned at the undeniable evidence poorly concealed by his pajama trousers. He closed his eyes and let his head fall back onto his pillow.

"Oh… this is not good…" John moaned, trying to forget the way Sherlock's name had sprung from his lips as he woke.

. . .

Since Sammi's disappearance, Sherlock had decided to focus their effort away from the mastermind himself and instead try to fill in a couple of the other blanks on his web.

"They all go willingly, John," a low voice sounded a few centimeters above his shoulder as John was walking down the corridor between classes with Molly.

It was like someone electrocuted him. John sprung away so quickly and violently his shoulder and backpack slammed against the wall he'd forgotten was so close beside him. Boll Molly and Sherlock were looking at him like he was crazy—which he was considering himself as a serious possibility to be honest.

"Jesus Christ! You scared the piss out of me," John said as he tried to regain some dignity, determinedly looking anywhere but at the tall, dark haired boy with questions in his eyes.

"As I was saying, they most likely are achieving the lack resistance by blackmail and threats, and for that—"

"You'd need an informant on the inside to get to know the victims," John finished huffily. "I know. You told me last night."

John had strategically made sure Molly was in between him and Sherlock when they started walking again so now Sherlock was trying to talk around her.

"Well, I wasn't sure if you heard me. You got upset and started throwing your possessions at me until I left. I thought it might be valuable to reiterate," Sherlock said accusingly.

Molly shot him another confused look that he deftly ignored.

"I was _asleep_," John grumbled.

It wasn't _his _fault that damn dream was throwing him into a mad sexual identity crisis as well as inspiring a number of other unwelcome side effects that certain did not cohabitate well with Sherlock showing up next to his bed in the middle of the night when his guard was down.

It wasn't as if Sherlock had been having one of his bad nights—he didn't have _that _face on. John always knew that face. Thank god it occurred infrequently now. John didn't know if he could handle Sherlock actually in his bed right now. No, he was sure he couldn't.

No, last night there weren't any nightmares. Instead Sherlock had come to tell John some small realization that full well could have waited until morning and oh, also to dismantle John's entire self image—with those damn cheekbones and sparkling eyes that brought up far too many unbidden mental pictures. He told himself they were just flashbacks to the dream, and he flat out _refused _to see them as independent observations.

Because everything about this was just crazy—and not in the good way.

The morning after the dream, John came up with several compelling reasons why the only option was to pack the dream away and forget about it, discount it as one of those nightmarish, hormone saturated teenaged dreams. John hadn't had more than a drop of luck in _that_ area since he'd come to the Baker Institute. He'd had so many other things to worry about and they were all certainly worth it, really, but the fact still remained that John hadn't even kissed someone in nearly a year now. He'd just been so busy. Plus, he spent so much time with Sherlock that he had probably just managed to accidentally work his way into the wrong dream. It was just a fluke.

"Anyway…" Sherlock began, drawing John back into the present. "I am going to begin cross-referencing the Wanderings at Baker to look for a common denominator. Ask around in your classes to see if Sammi was spending any time with any new people in the weeks before she Wandered."

John sighed, knowing it was going to be impossible to gain such information without sounding like a nutter. Oh well, half the Institute already thought he was crazy for the company he kept.

"Right…" John said wearily as they passed the administrative offices.

"Good," Sherlock said, and then took a sharp right into the student records office and John silently prayed that he wouldn't do something to get him kicked out of school.

John and Molly continued in silence for a moment or so but he didn't miss the sidelong glanced she was shooting in his direction and he had no hope that the silence would last. Already his mind was on overdrive to produce an adequate response to whatever question she was going to ask.

"So, did you two have a spat or something?" she asked timidly.

"I'm _straight,_" John blurted before he could stop himself.

He quickly realized he had been the one to edit 'spat' into 'lover's spat' in his head. His face burned with shame but it was too late. Molly's eyes were trained on him and she was more perceptive than anyone gave her credit for. She was going to see right through him, but when she spoke it was far from what John expected to hear.

"How do you know?" Molly asked.

John's eyebrows shot upwards.

"I'm sorry, what?" he said flatly.

Molly blushed and looked at the ground, stopping in front of her classroom, so traffic began to flow around them.

"I—I just meant, I don't know exactly what's bothering you, but I can guess… and I just thought… can any of us know that completely yet? It's… isn't university supposed to be when most of us finally find all that out?" Molly said softly. "I just mean, I don't think it's something to get worked up over when you're still young enough that you could easily find out something new about yourself."

Molly usually stumbled when she spoke, and usually it came out all wrong, but once in a blue moon Molly spoke some of the most profound, insightful commentaries John had ever heard.

This was one of those moments. John could only blink owlishly at her a few times before she mumbled a hasty goodbye and something that sounded like good luck before disappearing into the open door.

John sighed heavily and ran a tired hand over his face. Well, now he just had no idea where he stood.

. . .

In the end, Molly's words were not wasted on John—maybe he was a little less straight than he thought and that was fine. He was able to calm down from his complete identity crisis, but it still didn't change the fact that at the heart of all this strife was Sherlock Holmes, and that brought on a whole set of its own problems.

First, and most important, was the fact that Sherlock was his best friend and John knew about his past. For all John knew, even _thinking _about him that way could violate all the trust that Sherlock had in him.

And even _if _Sherlock wouldn't be completely betrayed then that still left the glaring and impassable fact that this was _Sherlock Holmes_—a person who ate out of only absolute necessity, slept when his body dropped, and thought _breathing _was_ boring. _John was fairly sure he would have a whole speech about the endeavors of the mind overshadowing trite hormonal needs. John had never seen him so much as show a passing interest in a girl _or _boy for that matter—which he guessed should be a key part of this assessment. The fact was that the idea of Sherlock in a relationship as the most preposterous thing that John had ever heard.

So John decided his best option was to pack it up in a little box and let it gather dust in the attic of his mind.

It seemed like a sustainable idea at the time.

Well, it worked for a little while.

"_John!" _

John was in a study hall, waiting until he had to go out and shift for his speech class when Sherlock was suddenly hovering over him, palms on the table top, with a fierce look in his eyes. John turned to the next page in his book.

"Sherlock," John greeted neutrally.

He used to respond to this level of excitement, but Sherlock often got this excited about pond scum, so over time John had habituated.

"I found the common denominator," Sherlock said, voice sharp.

That got John's attention. He leaned back in his chair and looked up at his friend, whose curls hung wildly over his forehead.

"What?" John prompted.

"I found the informant, John, the one person who had contact with each of the false Wanderer's before they disappeared," Sherlock said.

John clearly saw the red line branching out from the center of the web on Sherlock's wall, out to the neatly written 'informant' in his mind.

"Who?" John asked.

Sherlock hesitated for only half a second before his eyes flashed bright with excitement.

"Irene Adler."

According to Sherlock Irene Adler had been seeing Hannah Chamberlin as well as Sammi Knight in the month or so before each of them disappeared. She had at least shared a class or had some other connection to each of the other false Wanderers in Baker. John had no trouble believing Sherlock when he said it was Adler.

They finally found the woman in the Grand Entryway of Baker Hall. She sat in one of the plush armchairs that helped make the building look as posh as it did. She helped the image, too. Irene held a silver compact mirror in her palm and a blood red tube of lipstick in her other hand.

John's mood dropped at the mere sight of her. It could have been anyone, but no, it had to be Irene.

"Sherlock Holmes," she purred as they approached. "What brings _you _to see _me_?"

John sighed and readied himself to be ignored for most of the conversation.

"Oh, nothing much," Sherlock said archly. "I was just wondering how your job is going? Does it pay well?"

Her eyes widened in surprise for just a moment before her expression shifted into a sure smile.

"Well, bravo, Sherlock," she said smoothly. "It took you a while to figure it out but you got there in the end."

He compact snapped shut and she slipped it into her black handbag. John was just shocked that she wasn't even denying it. Sherlock, however, didn't seem surprised at all.

"Who is it? Who is your boss?" Sherlock cut straight to the quick.

Irene appeared unruffled as she delicately crossed one leg over the other and leaned back in the armchair, folding her hands over her knee.

"Oh, Sherlock you must know there is no way you can make me tell you that," she cooed with mock disappointment. "Or really anything for that matter. You have no evidence against me, no leverage. You should know better than to face _me _so unprepared."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at the woman, but John was furious.

"How can you even—how could you do this in the first place! Help these people do—"

"I have no idea what happens to the ones they tell me to watch. I collect information. I go places where others cannot and then I get paid," Irene cut him off. "I am sorry, John Watson, but such is the way of the world."

John's mouth opened and closed, too angry for words. Sherlock spoke before John could recover.

"You haven't even met him, have you?" Sherlock stated, barely a question.

Irene laughed.

"Oh, darling, of course not. He's far smarter than that," she said, voice like red velvet. "And he's had his eye on you right for the beginning, you know."

John saw Sherlock still at this and his own stomach dropped uncomfortably. Irene leaned forward onto her elbows.

"You know what he calls you…? The _virgin_," she said with a quite amusement and Sherlock gaze rose to a glare. "That's what the Autumn Ball was all about. He wanted to see if you could be… broken."

The smile on Irene's face made John want to punch her. He had more than an inkling of what being broken by Irene Adler would have entailed. Too bad John was raised not to hit women, or he would be seriously considering wiping the grin off her face.

"Well, sorry to _disappoint_," Sherlock said with a sneer.

That was right, John remembered. Sherlock had left the dance that night, left Irene alone in the auditorium.

But then Irene laughed once more and John's small bubble of satisfaction deflated.

"Oh, don't sell yourself short, Sherlock. The night wasn't wasted. You were already half way there, without my help," Irene grinned, and then for the first time in the conversation she actually looked at John, which was unnerving in itself.

Sherlock actually flinched and John felt the tension curling away from him. He locked eyes with Irene and what seemed to John like a silent battle of wills rose between them. After what seemed like an eternity, Sherlock scoffed and broke his glare away from her, turning on his heel.

"Come on, John," he hissed. "She won't tell us a thing."

With one last glance at Irene, who obviously knew she'd won the first round, John spun to follow Sherlock, who was already half way across the hall of milling people.

John only caught up to Sherlock once they were outside, crossing the commons towards A Wing. The grass was wet with dew and John's breath lightly fogged in the late winter air. He matched his stride to Sherlock's and opened his mouth to ask what the hell Irene had been talking about but then he was blindsided as a set of words beat his into the open air.

"I'm not a virgin," Sherlock stated, simply as he corrected any false statement.

John almost tripped and fell on his face. Of all the things John could imagine Sherlock saying in this moment, well he hadn't even bothered to put it on the list.

"I—I'm sorry, _what!_" John said.

He'd probably misheard.

"Despite my past belief that sexual activities and pursuits are unnecessary activities that pale in comparison to the exploits of the mind, a few years ago an opportunity presented itself and I decided to take advantage—for the sake of scientific curiosity and data," Sherlock tacked quickly onto the end with a sidelong glance at John.

John was currently blinking at him like an idiot. He _heard _the words. They just didn't completely make any sense yet.

"No… _you!_" John asked—because he needed complete confirmation.

Sherlock's head snapped towards John and his eyes narrowed into a glare.

"Just because I have a certain _history _as well as a general belief that the needs of the mind are far more important than those of the body, does not mean I'm _incapable_ of performing or partaking in acts of sexual intercourse, John," Sherlock spat and sped his pace.

With wide eyes watching his friend walk away, John realized he'd offended Sherlock. He immediately felt guilty as well as rather amused, however conflicting those feelings were, because not even in his craziest dreams—and he'd had some crazy ones lately—had John ever thought those words would come, in that order, out of Sherlock's mouth.

John jogged a couple steps to catch up.

"Sherlock! Sherlock, look, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to imply that…" John said, unsure what exactly he wanted to apologize for. "Who-um-who was she?"

John couldn't help asking, though he ignored why that was. If it was Irene though, John might have to strangle something.

Sherlock didn't pause, or slow, but he did answer, which John hoped mean he accepted his apology.

"Victor," Sherlock said. "_His _name was Victor."

John tripped over his own feet, and that box he'd stored in the dark corner of his mind sprung right open, spilling its contents absolutely everywhere.


	18. Limit

_**_**_**_**_**_**_**_**_**_**_****This will be a full length AU fic and will be posted up here as I finish and my lovely, amazing beta, **kathecello, **cleans them up! Warnings for the whole story: general adult themes, swearing, mentions of child abuse, drug use/abuse, graphic sex, and violence. Rating has gone up.****_**_**_**_**_**_**_**_**_**_**_

_**_**_**_**_**_**_**_**_**_**_****Sorry it's taken so long to get an update out. Real life decided to show up and kick my ass but I've only got two more weeks of University before summer break and then I'm free! Enjoy and review!  
><strong>**_**_**_**_**_**_**_**_**_**_**_

**_How to Build a Heart out of Ashes: _**_Limit_

_by Teumessian_

Sherlock Holmes met Victor Trevor in the first term of his eleventh year, in a university organic chemistry course. Victor was a third year university student with a bull terrier shift, and up until that point in his life, Sherlock had been fully aware of sex—_what _it was, what it did to those with lesser mental capacities, but the how and why of those facts were all abstract concepts to him. He'd tried to do some research online but it was hardly worth wading through the lakes of pornography that shrouded any actual analysis.

It's not that Sherlock's attention was particularly drawn to Victor, but it didn't take a genius to figure out that the antisocial prodigy had caught Victor's eye. He laughed at Sherlock's scornful remarks instead of getting upset which was a first outside of Irene. Victor wasn't unbearably stupid either, nor was he any sort of threat.

So when Victor had made a proposition, Sherlock hadn't said no. Maybe it _was _pure scientific experimentation. Maybe his hormones had just found a logical way to undermine his past beliefs. Either way, it led him to a series of visits to Victor's B Wing flat.

It was a mutually beneficial engagement. Victor was a sexually active, noncommittal twenty one year old university student with a young lover who was utterly uninterested in a relationship outside the bedroom, and even that 'relationship' was limited to the time it took for Sherlock to get his breath back and put his shirt on.

Sherlock would admit it was interesting for a while. It turns out there were some benefits and positive aspects of sexual intercourse, and Victor never asked anything more of Sherlock than he cared to give. He would only laugh from where he lay sprawled in his bed as Sherlock pulled his trousers on like the bed would catch fire if he remained there for too long. He thought Sherlock was odd, but amusing, usually to Sherlock's annoyance, and he loved Sherlock's body.

So it worked, until it didn't. It wasn't surprising, nor was it dramatic. The novelty wore off for Sherlock and Victor's rampant hormones began seeing a new target. Sherlock had never given him a reason to lock his focus. They never talked about it. Sherlock just stopped coming over and Victor stopped texting. As far as Sherlock was concerned the experiment was a success. Victor graduated a year later and Sherlock deleted all the information he hadn't found useful and having let his hormones run the show for once, they were more manageable and he hadn't had so much as a spark of interest in a second trail—until a few weeks ago of course.

"Sherlock!"

Sherlock pressed his lips against his steepled fingers from where he stood as still as a statue in front of the great map on his wall, obscured by all his additions.

That was John's voice. When did John get here? Had he been here the whole time? He'd been working on a term paper… No, that was last night. When had he left? Sherlock just must not have heard him come in.

"Yes, John?" Sherlock said.

With a glance Sherlock surmised that John was back from class—something Sherlock had definitely forgotten about—and had returned quickly, if his fast breathing and flushed cheeks were anything to go by. If John had a purpose for rushing, it seemed to be momentarily forgotten as his brow furrowed and he cocked his head to the side.

"Have you moved since I left?" he asked.

Sherlock raised a single eyebrow.

"When did you leave?" Sherlock countered.

John just his eyes and shook his head as if he were having a momentary internal conflict—probably about something trivial like not eating or sleeping. He recovered quickly enough.

"Tracy Abbot Wandered," John rushed. "Three whole days ago now. How haven't you heard about this?"

"I did hear about it," Sherlock corrected.

A small girl with blonde curls had approached him in the corridor two days ago. She had gone away with a crisp ten pound note in her pocket.

"You already knew! Why haven't we been out to the forest? Or even the booths!" John asked, shocked.

Sherlock didn't look away from the wall.

"Because she Wandered, John," he said.

"Yes, that's what I said. So why—"

Sherlock turned and made a severing gesture with his hand.

"No, John, she was an _actual _Wanderer. She was a red squirrel. She wasn't unusual or interesting," Sherlock said, phrasing bring a scowl to John's face. "You must not forget that the _reason _that this conspiracy is so successful is because Wanderings _do _happen."

John looked a little defiant, for reasons that Sherlock didn't understand.

"Are you _sure_?" John asked.

Sherlock's face turned to confusion.

"Of course I'm sure," Sherlock said. "Why?"

John sighed but seemed to at least relax.

"Okay. It's just… I guess it's better than what the false-Wanderers are probably going through, but still, it's just sort of… sad, you know?" John asked, though he probably knew Sherlock didn't. "True Wanderers are really gone. There's no chance of them coming back."

Sherlock cocked his head to the side. John really was strange sometimes. Many people were grieved when people close to them Wandered, but it was socially accepted and most people were unbothered by the Wanderings of those they weren't personally close with. It was something you were aware of from the day you entered an Institute, or earlier if you came from a Changeling family. John hadn't, and he changed so late—perhaps he never got used to the idea with all the falsehoods surrounding the subject since he arrived at Baker.

"It's supposed to be true freedom," Sherlock said, rattling off the common view.

John shrugged and half smiled, moving towards the bed.

"Maybe so, but they're still gone to us," John said. "That's the sad part."

Sherlock didn't know what to say to that. John pulled his coursework out of his back. Sherlock just watched, unsure why John's confusing words were actually striking him.

Maybe Sherlock could understand, just a bit, he thought as John settled on his duvet.

. . .

Sherlock rarely checked his mailbox on the first floor of A Wing, but Mycroft was sending him some secure documents that he refused to photocopy, to Sherlock's acute annoyance. So it was just chance that he happened to check the box and discover a postcard that was postmarked only a few days previously. It was from the London Zoo of all places, but as he flipped it over Sherlock quickly realized that was of absolutely no importance, simply a mode of transportation that would be untraceable.

The letters were clear and sharp, and written in bright red ink. Sherlock's gut filled with acid and his eyes narrowed to angry slits.

_The game has been wonderfully fun, Sherlock, but playtime is nearly over. Never forget that it was curiosity that killed the cat._

There was no smiley face this time.

. . .

John had rushed from his last class. He was going to miss his shift speech class but well, he was mostly getting the hang of it by now. This was more important.

**John, there's been a development – SH**

He'd received the text at the end of his Intro class, which was _finally _almost finished. After the text, John had spent the rest of the class nearly leaping out of his seat. Once again, John had no idea what Professor Highland had been lecturing that day.

When he finally reached 631A, Sherlock was standing by the window and he was holding what appeared to be a small, rectangular piece of heavy paper.

"Sherlock, what's happened?"

For once Sherlock didn't start spouting words like a fountain. He simply turned away from the window and held out the paper, red and white catching John's eye as he took it he realized it was a postcard. Sherlock fixed his gaze on John as his eyes scanned over the scarlet message, recognition of the script lighting a spark in John's stomach and each word was like petrol poured over it. Despite the simmering fire in his belly, a deadly calm settled over John.

John knew he should probably have been scared or worried at least, but instead all he felt was anger and hate feeding into determination. Besides what the bastard had done, is doing, to Changelings, John also had a personal score to settle with the man who had dug into the past to resurrect Sherlock's original demon and set it on the young Changeling.

Sherlock took a step closer when John didn't lift his bladed gaze from the offending words.

"John?" Sherlock probed.

John's fierce eyes pulled away from the page and met Sherlock's curious stare. It was like he was waiting to see how John would react to the new development.

"This means we're getting closer, doesn't it?" John asked.

Sherlock took another step closer.

"It could be that," Sherlock confirmed, though he seemed to have other theories.

"Good," John said harshly.

Sherlock's brow furrowed in mild confusion, but interest was simmering just below.

"You aren't upset? Worried? You aren't going to suggest I back off the case?" the young genius questioned, leaning forward.

John looked down at the words for another moment and felt his face harden, images of frozen faces hanging on the wall, as well as Sherlock shaking against him, rotated through his mind.

"No, I want to save those people," John said, head snapping back up. "I want you to _catch _him."

Then his heard thudded once because _when had Sherlock gotten so close_!_?_

At his words, Sherlock's eyes widened for just a nanosecond before his gaze intensified once more and he nodded slightly once. If John had planned to say more, those plans were long lost. His tongue had probably become too dry to speak anyway, because Sherlock was looking at him strangely and he was only centimeters away.

John turned the postcard absently in his fingers, because apparently that was the only part of him that would move right now. His mind screamed at him to get out of this situation because it would be far too easy to take a step forward, tilt his head up, and—John rapidly began to mentally scan through his list of reasons why doing things like _that _were _horrible _ideas.

John glanced down for just a moment and latched onto the only thing there, the postcard, now face up in his hands. It was easy to recognize its origin. John had been to the London Zoo as a child.

"You know, my parents took Harry and I to the zoo when we were small, but now that I've Changed I think it might make me uncomfortable," John blurted with a giggle, offhand, desperate for anything to break this tension.

The expressions on Sherlock's face came slow at first but then his head jerked back like he'd been slapped. His mouth hung open and his eyes were as wide as they could be.

"Oh… _oh!_" he shouted, making John jump as the dark haired Changeling sprung away from him, spinning on the balls of his feet.

"Sherlock…!" John questioned.

He was instantly back in John's personal space as he gripped John's shoulders tightly, his expression was nearly wild.

"John, you're _brilliant_!" Sherlock said, to John's utter confusion. "I've been so stupid! Of course it's not a coincidence! How didn't I see it? It's been right there the whole time and I _missed _it—well, there hasn't been such a thing in hundreds of years…"

Sherlock was babbling and it was so difficult to understand anything he said when he got like this…

"Sherlock!" John called to get his attention. "What? _What _are you talking about?"

His smile was gleeful and his fingers pressed into John's shoulders.

"I know why they're being taken—the false Wanderers!"

John's stomach swooped. This was it. He knew better than to expect that Sherlock's excitement meant that the Changelings were alive, but he could hope.

"John, it's—" and John would talk to him later about how inappropriate it was to be this excited. "It's a _menagerie_!"

. . .

Even John had heard of menageries. They were among the historic acts of inhumanity—like witch hunts and the burning of homosexuals. They were most prominent during the dark ages when Christianity gained momentum in Western world and Changelings were demonized and persecuted openly as hell spawn. Changelings, the 'beast-hearted' or 'demon-souled' as they were often called, were hunted and killed like animals, and were forced into hiding, becoming adept at blending in to Normal society, but then a new fad arose among the nobility.

Kings and rich nobles took up the habit of collecting and keeping Changelings in horrific menageries. The number and uniqueness of the Changelings were considered status symbols among the aristocracy. They were sick, horrible places where, at best Changelings were kept in cages like zoo animals for the rest of their lives, or at worst were pitted against wild animals or even other Changelings in gladiator-like death matches.

As far as John knew, the practice hadn't made it out of the Middle Ages. For one to have appeared in the 21st Century was stupefying but Sherlock had long since convinced him it couldn't' be much else. It could have been individual exports of human trafficking—that was still rampant in third world countries—but Sherlock was now sure the post card had been a clue.

Neither John nor Sherlock were pleased about this fact. John thought it sort of threw a wrench in 'the mastermind is scared because we're getting close' theory. He just had to hold on to the knowledge that sociopaths usually wanted to get caught; hopefully this theory could be applied here. Either way, John still was determined to find him.

After the excitement of discovery wore off, Sherlock just got angry because he took the hint as an insult, and was even more furious that he'd needed it. He wouldn't say so aloud, but John could tell.

The high of the new information didn't fade for a good few days. Sherlock bounced from states of bursting excitement to swirling frustration when each new thread he followed lead to nowhere. John knew it was pointless to try and calm him at the moment. He would come down eventually.

Until then John just took care to point him in the direction of his classes during the day and slipped tea, water and food into his hands during the evening and night. Sherlock was too busy ranting, pacing and thinking to fight him as he once might have.

His steam finally ran out four days after they received the postcard. John had been sitting on the floor against the bed revising for his final exams of winter term. He still had two weeks but with Sherlock around he was never sure when he'd have time. Sherlock had been sitting on the bed with a new round of files and historical documents he had persuaded Mycroft to send up that morning.

John was alerted to the change on the bed by the sound of papers crinkling behind him. When he turned John was met with the sight of a sleeping Sherlock Holmes. He had keeled right over into a stack of files. It wasn't that uncommon a sight for John. Due to Sherlock's nasty habit of refusing to sleep for days, he had a tendency to sleep where he fell—quite literally. John had been expecting this for the last 24 hours. The sight still made him sigh, but he'd be lying if he said it wasn't laced with fondness.

John closed and stacked his books and then stood to clear the debris strewn over Sherlock's bed. Sherlock was seemingly dead to the world, not even making a sound of protest when John moved his arms to gain access to the papers that were pinned under him. Then John set about tucking the lanky genius under the duvet. It involved a little bit of manhandling but John was gentle and Sherlock only murmured softly as John laid him back against the pillows.

Sherlock lay on his back with his head turned just slightly to the side, lips just barely parted—relaxed. He looked so much younger without the constant intensity he always threw about while conscious. His curly hair was strewn messily over his forehead, and the light traces of fondness John had previously felt swelled overwhelmingly. He still had his list of reasons and logically he knew better but, for some reason, in that moment John acted.

Without even really thinking about it, like his body was moving on its own, John extended his hand to tenderly brush the dark curls away from Sherlock's brow and then he leaned forward and pressed his lips, brief and chaste, against Sherlock's forehead, and it had nothing to do with the fact that he thought Sherlock was attractive, or that he'd had center stage in the most perplexingly hot dream of John's life. No, it was because this was Sherlock, his best mate, who refused to sleep until he dropped, who John had to take into the forest when his brain had twisted itself into knots that fresh air and studying bullfrogs seemed to untangle instantly, the genius whose mind he'd held in his own—the only one who ever had.

When John straightened he blinked once, a little surprised at what he'd just done, and then made sure he hadn't been caught. Sherlock's face was still utterly at ease. John sighed once, ignoring the strange twinge in his heart that may have been something like regret, and turned to pick up his books from where he'd left them on the desk and turned out the lights before going to the door. He almost got out, he really did.

"John?" the voice called as his hand closed over the door knob.

Well, shit, John thought and he should have known his luck wouldn't hold out.

Heart beating rapidly, John turned to see the shape of Sherlock pushed up onto his elbows in the dark.

"Yes…?" John asked, daring to hope Sherlock had been awoken when he'd turned out the lights and had been asleep for the interesting part.

"Come over here," Sherlock said and his eyes said that John's luck had failed him again.

Still, John crossed back over to the bed, stomach sinking. He'd done the deed and now he was going to pay for it what could only be an intensely awkward conversation that would probably result in the closest friendship he'd ever had being broken into pieces. John stared resolutely at duvet, anywhere but Sherlock's bewildered eyes—unfortunately he could still feel it fluttering faintly in the dark, the confusion.

"Why did you do that?" Sherlock asked.

John briefly considered lying, saying he didn't know what Sherlock was talking about, that it was an _experiment_, something, but it wasn't like there was any legitimate way to excuse this. Sherlock would know he was lying anyway.

So John told the truth.

"Because I care about you."

John hazarded a glance up at Sherlock who merely had cocked his head to the side, analytical expression fixed firmly on his face. Great. He was being _deduced_. How had John let himself make this mistake?

"But I thought you were heterosexual," Sherlock stated and John's face burned.

Still, he couldn't help but laugh at the preposterousness of this conversation.

"You and me both," John said.

There was a long, uncomfortable pause.

"Oh… _oh,_" Sherlock exclaimed, a soft shadow of the noise of discovery he'd made four days previously and John just desperately wished this moment would be over. "Well, then I believe you missed, John."

John's head snapped back up, jaw a little slack. _What!_

There was something like determination, or a challenge, in Sherlock's still sleep laden, blue eyes. Did he mean what John thought he meant? There was a tickle up against the wall of his mind and oh—yes, John thought. He did.

John realized he'd actually stopped breathing as he processed that, and with wide eyes he inhaled suddenly and sharply. For once, John didn't waste another moment considering the likelihood that this could be another dream. For once, John tore his list of reasons into tiny, irreparable pieces and leaned forward, setting his books on the nightstand.

Sherlock didn't move and let John come to him, forcing himself to stay still, eyes open. John brought both his hands up to Sherlock's face, thumbs brushing over high cheekbones. He hesitated for only half a second to feel their breaths mingle before he through caution to the wind and pressed his lips to Sherlock's. And _Jesus Christ_ it was a million times better than any damn dream.

Sherlock's hand came up to cover John's before sliding down his arm to rest over his heart when John began to lean him back until his head hit the pillow. John moved his lips gently over Sherlock's, heart thrumming gleefully when Sherlock responded and pressed his fingers into John's shirt. John inhaled through his nose, willing this to be burned into his mind, and Sherlock _did _taste a little like tea, but also so much else indescribable.

John let his lips linger for just a moment longer before John pressed one last brief kiss against what felt like a sly smile. Sherlock's eyes stayed closed when John lifted his head. He brushed his thumb one more time over Sherlock's cheek before letting go; he didn't want to push.

"Goodnight, Sherlock," John whispered softly as he gathered his books back up into his arms.

Sherlock said nothing. The pale Changeling seemed to have fallen back to sleep, but just before John slipped through the door a voice floated to catch him on his way out.

"Goodnight, John."

He may have been imagining it, but if John didn't know better, he would have said there was an undercurrent of self-satisfaction in the farewell. Either way, John smiled and giggled softly as he closed the door behind him.

He shook his head. He felt buzzed, jittery. It wasn't a wholly bad feeling.

No, John thought. He rather liked it.


	19. Gravity

____________This will be a full length AU fic and will be posted up here as I finish and my lovely, amazing beta, kathecello, cleans them up! Warnings for the whole story: general adult themes, swearing, mentions of child abuse, drug use/abuse, graphic sex, and violence. Rating has gone up.____________

____________Sorry it took so long to get this chapter up. Been a crazy month with finals/moving blah blah blah. There is so much lovely stuff on the blog, including the second fanmix, heaps of fanart, and bunches of random information triggered by lovely questions from all of you. **BIG HUGE GIANT AUTHOR'S NOTE. PLEASE READ: SO THERE HAS BEEN LOTS OF TALK OF ACTUALLY PULLING DOWN NC-17 STORIES AND SINCE THIS CHAPTER WILL PUSH THE RATING UP TO THAT I AM AFRAID THE STORY MAY GET PULLED HERE. NEVER FEAR HOWEVER: IF THE STORY GETS PULLED HERE IT WILL CONTINUE TO BE POSTED NORMALLY ON Ao3. SO IF THIS STORY, MY ACCOUNT OR WHATEVER IS YANKED AND YOU CAN'T FIND IT HERE, IT WILL STILL BE ON ARCHIVE OF OUR OWN. -Emily**  
><em>___________

_**How to Build Heart out of Ashes: **__Gravity_

_by Teumessian_

To John's surprise, nothing really changed after he kissed Sherlock. What that said about their relationship prior to that night John didn't know, but whatever it was, by some miracle it worked.

Responding to some instinct, John was taking it slow, careful not to push Sherlock. So in all honesty everything pretty much stayed the same, except, of course, in the few places where it didn't.

Like late at night when John was trying to get some sleep before an exam day and Sherlock was playing the violin, notes slipping past the wall like it didn't exist. So John rose and slipped into the hall, like he always did, opened the door to 631A and crossed the room to the dark haired teen, eyelids heavy. As he usually did, John slipped the bow from his fingers, and this is where something changed. Instead of just turning and leaving, John cupped Sherlock's jaw in his palm and left a lingering kiss on his lips. Then he straightened, still half asleep, said goodnight and returned to his own room. He placed the bow on his nightstand, got under the covers and then fell asleep to the sound of nimble fingers plucking softly on tight violin strings.

. . .

In light of his new discovery, Sherlock decided it was time to face Irene again.

Looking back, the young genius had been completely unsurprised when he figured out Irene was a part of the web. Just as it was for Sherlock, the Institute must be painfully boring for someone of her intelligence and skill sets. Sherlock couldn't blame her for moving on to bigger things.

Unfortunately, she'd made the fatal mistake of joining the wrong side.

They found the woman leaning against a forest-side wall of Baker Hall. She spotted them quickly.

"If you came to try and get more information from me, then you're wasting your time, boys," Irene stated coolly, thumb brushing absently over the buttons on her phone.

John scowled at her but said nothing. Sherlock made sure to keep his face clear at this point.

"I believe you're wrong," Sherlock said simply.

Irene raised a carefully shaped brow, but said nothing.

"Give us his name," he continued.

Her eyes narrowed. She was smart enough to notice the confidence around Sherlock and the tension rolling off John and realize that it meant they were on more even footing that last time, even if she didn't yet know why.

"He cut contact with me after you two tracked me down," she said accusingly.

Sherlock felt the hot flash faintly and knew John had reached his limit. It was okay. Sherlock had brought John along for more than moral support.

"Like we care about your bloody 'job'! Like that _matters! _Tell us his name," John demanded angrily.

Irene looked defiant and cold.

"Of course it matters, you fool. It's not about my financial security. The point is that he has eyes and ears _everywhere _and I tell you, I'll be dead before the next week," Irene said back sharply. "I've got to look out for me, _darling_."

Her last word was soft and condescending. John just shook his head, eyes and mouth open in an amazement that was anything but positive. It was a look John made when he didn't believe someone—because what they said made him furious and doubt humanity. Sherlock had been on the receiving end of it once or twice… he didn't like it then, but now it served its purpose.

"You selfish—do you have any idea what you've helped do!" John nearly shouted.

Irene crossed her arms over her chest.

"I told you it's none of my business—" she began.

"It's a menagerie," Sherlock cut her off. "I'm sure you've learned about them in history courses."

Irene's eyes widened, just barely giving away the overwhelming shock that was rocking her. The stories of menageries embodied every cruel, horrible, injustice that had ever been done to Changelings. Of course there had been many other historic atrocities, but the menageries seemed to take all of them and wrap them up in one horrific, nauseating package. Even Irene would be affected by news of one existing today.

Sherlock knew they had to strike while the iron was hot. John took care of it.

"Your own people! _Human beings! Changelings, _kept in cages like _animals _and you helped do it! How could you live with—"

"I didn't know," Irene said quietly, whole body tensed.

John scoffed and threw up his hands.

"Didn't want to, is more likely," Sherlock prodded.

She locked eyes with him, conflict swirling around in her eyes.

"Give us the name, Irene," Sherlock said, voice hard.

Fear and desperation clouded her face and Sherlock found himself uncomfortable with that, though the feeling would never show.

"He'll kill me," the woman whispered.

Sherlock resolutely ignored the unbidden memory of a girl in a red dress leaning towards him, elbows on the table, jaw resting on her little palms. Her face was confident and clever, even before she'd begun painting it into a weapon.

"You were the one who chose to mix yourself up with a mad man," Sherlock forced himself to say.

The desperation was fading in her eyes and instead they glassed with fear and defeat, but still she paused, hoping. Sherlock said nothing and continued to stare at her, gaze sharp as knives, letting John's disgust feed into him, as well as his own pride in the win, making him hardened as steel.

Finally, the woman closed her eyes, and if a single tear fell down her cheek. Sherlock forced himself not to really see it. He had won, in the end.

"Moriarty," she said quietly, voice shaking over the syllables. "His name is Moriarty."

. . .

John had received the text around midnight.

**Meet me in Lab 4 of the biology building – SH**

"You took Greg's keys again to get in here, didn't you?" John asked as he entered the fluorescently lit lab to see a dark haired Changeling bent over a high powered microscope.

Sherlock didn't look up.

"At dinner, yes…" he said in absent confirmation as he made a note with his right hand.

John continued over and turned so he could lean against the lab bench while Sherlock worked.

"You better get them back before he needs them. He could get into trouble," John said, barely a condemnation.

"The faculty is fully aware that Lestrade can't stop me from getting these no matter how hard he tries," Sherlock said, adjusting the focus of the microscope. "Besides, I'll slip them under the door before morning."

John figured that was as positive a response he could hope to get and let it drop. Sherlock took the slide he'd been looking at off the slide table and put it away. Then he pulled out a set of instruments that reminded John of the ones the technicians had used when he donated blood a few years back.

"So, have you found anything about Moriarty?" John asked.

Since they'd gotten the name three days ago Sherlock had used every method he knew of to find him. He'd even gone into London the other day. He told John it was to meet with Mycroft but John hadn't been told exactly what for. However, since he'd heard a whisper of hallway gossip that afternoon a new theory was forming.

"There are vague whispers of the name everywhere but nothing definite," Sherlock said as he poked a hypodermic needle into his forearm so a small amount of blood filled the attached vial. "He's real, though. There is no doubt of that."

John nodded, still pleased they now had a name he could direct his hate towards.

"What are you doing?" John finally asked as the genius removed the hypodermic needle and replaced it with a small cotton ball.

It may have been a light stalling tactic, but John wasn't sure exactly sure how Sherlock would react when John brought up what he meant to.

"An experiment," was all he said as he tossed the cotton ball in the biohazard bin, and picked up another hypodermic-vial combo. "Give me your arm."

John very vaguely wondered when a request like this became something he complied with without question as he rolled up his sleeve and held out his arm. He didn't flinch when the needle breeched his skin. Sherlock's hands were clear as they kept him steady. The vial began to fill with red.

"Irene Adler was found dead in London three days ago," John finally said, voice low, eyes on Sherlock's face.

Sherlock didn't respond visibly in any way. He kept his eyes on the blood pooling into the vial.

"Her body was burned to a crisp. They had to use dental records to identify her," John continued, still watching.

"Mm," Sherlock said noncommittally, like it was old news he didn't care about.

Sherlock handed him a cotton ball and still said nothing.

"It's odd… three days ago... Weren't you in London three days ago?" John asked, cocking his head at his dark haired friend who was now labeling the vial.

"Yes," Sherlock said simply.

John paused, watching the seemingly indifferent Changeling closely.

"I'm sorry. I know you two knew each other for a long time," John said, not really knowing how to characterize that relationship. "It's just a mad coincidence that you happened to be in London the same day she was murdered there."

"Very strange," Sherlock said with finality and John knew he would never get more out of the atypically silent Changeling.

For the second time that night John decided to let something drop, though a shadow of a quiet smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

A few moments of comfortable silence passed between them as they rested in their own minds and the dance of the moment faded out and Sherlock had put the labeled vials into his bag.

He was brought back to attention as Sherlock moved to stand in front of John, who still leaned against the lab bench, elbows bent, palms resting on the edge. There was something calculating in his eyes and he cocked his head in an unarticulated question. John raised an eyebrow in return, obviously not denying the young Changeling.

Then Sherlock stepped forward and kissed him squarely on the mouth.

John smiled into it as their lips moved together for a moment, before he giggled.

"What's this?" John laughed, though he didn't move Sherlock out of his space, hand having moved up to rest on Sherlock's side.

"Independent variable," Sherlock said, though his voice was rough and deep on John's lips. "Already took the control."

He nodded towards his bag where the two vials of blood were stored.

He shouldn't have laughed. Despite the circumstances, John could feel the heat of Sherlock's thoughts against his mind, but it was too perfect.

"Let me guess, hormones in the blood in relation to stimuli?" John asked, moving his other hand up to Sherlock's hip.

Sherlock moved his head back just enough that he could pin John with a surprised stare.

"How did you know?" he asked.

"I know you," John giggled, pulling him in to press another kiss to his lips, "And I had a dream like this once."

Sherlock moved closer so he could lean forward, one hand on the lab bench, the other on John's jaw.

"You did?" Sherlock asked between kisses, sounding pleased.

"Mmhm," John murmured.

And then the conversation promptly faded to an end as Sherlock nipped at his bottom lip and John started his own investigation, centered around the study of Sherlock's lips and clever tongue.

. . .

When Jackson Ford, a second year university student with a bird of paradise shift, Wandered, you would have thought Christmas had come early for Sherlock Holmes—if he got as excited about the holidays as normal people did.

"He's gone too far! Five Wanderings in a single year? It's unheard of! The staff is already beginning to talk!"

Sherlock's excited ravings reached John in his flickering, poorly lit changing booth. They'd tried to find the abduction site but because Ford's shift was avian, it had been a rather hopeless endeavor to begin with, but still, John could feel Sherlock's excitement bumping up against his mind.

"If the Institute is questioning it they'll _have _tolisten and then they'll have to take it Scotland Yard, and if Scotland Yard gets involved, _oh_, the equipment and databases I could gain access to!" Sherlock continued. "Oh, John, isn't it _thrilling_?"

John couldn't see him but he could easily tell Sherlock must be close to bouncing up and down. John's enthusiasm was definitely present, however, surely for very different reasons.

"Yeah, Sherlock. It's brilliant," John said as he pulled on his jeans. "We're finally going to be able to find all of them. They're going to get to go home."

John smiled to himself and Sherlock was quite outside the booth. John could tell he was leaning against one of the wall edges from where his elbow made a bump in the curtain.

"You really care about all of them, John… how do you always care so much?" the genius finally asked softly.

John's lips quirked.

"Well, someone's got to, don't they? Speaking of caring, you haven't eaten yet today have you?" John asked, aware that it was close to midnight already.

Sherlock scoffed, tender moment passing.

"Aren't you done yet?"

Actually he wasn't. John had gotten a bur stuck in his hair. Usually if they got caught in his fur during a trip into the forest, they would fall right out as he made the transition from fur to skin, or fur to hair, but this time one on his head caught in his hair during the shift. He'd gotten distracted from redressing when he noticed.

"Just… I've got a bur—give me a minute," John said absently, as he tried and failed to dislodge the prickly object.

Sherlock gave a suffering sigh.

"Here, let me—"

There was a rustle as Sherlock pushed through the curtain, and then froze solid.

John had managed to get his trousers onto his hips, but they weren't even buttoned. He hadn't put his shirt back on and his marker was still most definitely hanging around his neck. He was sort of frozen, too, because there was something burning in Sherlock's eyes and the feeling of his mind had shifted suddenly and radically.

"Sherlock?" John hesitantly questioned, fingers still tangled in his own hair.

It was like his voice had cut the ties holding Sherlock in place and John was very suddenly being crowded up against the wall of the booth. There were fingers in his hair, one tug, and the bur was loose and promptly dropped to the ground. John only managed to snap his eyes wide open before long fingers curled under the blue marker around his neck and yanked his head forward, causing his lips to crush against Sherlock's with near bruising force.

John responded instinctually, lips parting under Sherlock's greedy open mouthed kisses. The violinist's other hand pressed over his stomach, making his abdominal muscles jump at the touch of night-chilled fingers. John's own quickly shot up to burry themselves in Sherlock's curls.

Then his brain finally clicked back online.

"Sh-Sherlock? What are you—" John tried to ask because this was nothing like they'd done before.

This was definitely and indisputably going somewhere they'd never gone before.

The fingers tightened around his marker and he was held in place so Sherlock could hiss directly in his ear.

"I _know _you want this, John. I _feel _it in your mind. I've _seen_ it in your blood. I am _not _some delicate flower, so stop being such a _gentleman_!"

And on the last word, Sherlock slid his free hand down, past John's open fly to grind his palm over John's cock, which was already half hard in his pants. He gasped and his head kicked back in equal parts shock and pleasure, hitting the wall of the booth with a low thud.

John resolutely decided to give into Sherlock's demands in that moment—how could he not when it felt like the genius had just lit him on fire?

There was something he was forgetting, though. It was just so hard to remember while Sherlock's teeth tugged on his earlobe and palmed him roughly through his shorts. John hazily opened his eyes and saw the simple white washed walls and the heavy curtain separating the two Changelings from the cold night air. Finally it clicked.

"Nn-ah-okay, Sherlock," John stuttered to a start. "But not here—"

Sherlock pulled his head back to eye John seriously, as if he was making sure that the short intermission didn't mean this wasn't going to go exactly where he wanted it to. John's wide need-glazed eyes were enough of an answer for the moment.

It was a good thing it was late and dark as the two lust-addled young men attempted to make it back to A Wing. There was a lot of clumsy groping, stumbling, and kissing in stairwells. John was fairly sure he buttoned his shirt wrong, but it wasn't worth the time it would take to fix it. Plus his marker was still bouncing against his collar bones as he and Sherlock took the stairs two or three at a time, so if they were unfortunate enough to run into anyone at this point they'd probably miss the poor buttoning skills anyway.

John was actually surprised when they reached the sixth floor without having tumbled to a premature death. They hesitated a moment in front of 631A and 629A having to decide which door to proceed through; it was an easy choice as John remember the ledgers and files he'd seen all over Sherlock's bed that morning.

John fumbled with the lock as Sherlock grazed the back of his neck with his teeth, catching the marker enough that it rubbed against his collar bones. John had quickly realized in the few short weeks since he and Sherlock had started this part of their relationship that Sherlock was more than capable in this area and he was a wicked quick study when it came to picking up on what John liked, and now it was like a switch had been flipped and he was using every scrap of knowledge he possessed to drive John out of his right mind. He ground his forehead against the hard wood of his door, head falling forward under Sherlock's touch.

Finally, the barrier gave way and they stumbled into John's room. He habitually flicked on the light as they basically fell through the doorway. Their lips were locked, hands already tugging at each other's clothing as the door clicked shut and they backed towards the bed.

By the time they got close Sherlock's coat and both their shoes had been discarded. Sherlock had worked the buttons back open on John's shirt and pushed it aside so it hung from his elbows and the genius could move his mouth down to his shoulder, where thin pink scars marked him, and then back up to John's mouth.

The backs of John's knees hit the edge of the bed and they were forced to stop moving back. They paused for a moment, too focused on the way their tongues were twisting from one mouth to the other, back and forth, but then John was suddenly overbalanced as Sherlock leaned abruptly forward, pushing at his bare chest. Their lips parted with a sharp pop as John fell ungracefully onto his elbows and back on the bed. His eyes opened in surprise.

Sherlock's hands started on his shoulders, eyes as focused as lasers on John's body, and the things it was doing to him to know Sherlock was observing him with such intensity. The dark haired genius firmly ran his hands downward, over John's chest, his ribs and over his stomach, until he reached his trousers, leaving a double trail of warm stripes down his torso.

John really thought he should do something. This was all happening so fast. Why had he been taking things slow again? For Sherlock, he recalled. However, that very same person was currently yanking his trousers down his legs and everything just felt so damn _good_, and when John had opened his mouth to say something Sherlock had pinned him with a glare that _dared _him to protest. So when Sherlock's fingers slipped under the elastic of his boxers and curled around him to pull his now fully fledged erection free, the only thing John could do was hitch his hips reflexively and gasp.

But it was nothing compared to the burst of pleasure that shot through his body when kiss-swollen lips closed over the head of his cock.

"Sherlock!" John said sharply as his hands shot down to bury his fingers in dark curls.

He was careful not to push or tug at Sherlock's head, despite how hard it was to control himself at _all _as that usually sharp tongue swirled, soft and firm, over the tip, pressing up against the underside. One of Sherlock's hands encircled the part of John that was currently not enveloped in wet heat and the other held his hip, stilling him. It was too much. What had possessed them? How did they get here?

When John looked down from where he rested on his elbows—which was a huge mistake—he was met with the sight of _Sherlock Holmes _sucking him off, lips wet and moving, cheeks hollowing as he pulled, flushed, eyelashes casting shadows on his cheek bones. It was a _million _times more than he could handle. He let his head fall back and his eyes fall shut, moan leaking from his throat.

At that, John swore he felt Sherlock smile against the tip of his cock—the prideful git. If he kept up like this John wasn't going to last long at all. It had been too long and he was not _that _experienced.

John felt Sherlock's fingers playing over his stomach, half distracting from, half increasing, the warm pulses of pleasure that were racing through him. John tried to concentrate very hard on just breathing.

When that hand moved down to his hip again, it braced him, and then Sherlock took him in as far as he could and John's whole body flexed with the effort it took not to buck upwards wildly.

"Sherlock!"

The name burst out hoarsely. John screwed his eyes shut tightly as the genius bobbed up and down and he could _feel _Sherlock's throat constricting around him and yes this was so far too much—it was going to be over in a minute if he didn't do something, John thought and forced himself to look back down.

He pulled on Sherlock's shoulders and the genius lifted his lips off him, a tiny string of saliva connecting them for just a second and the sight of that in combination with the way Sherlock's eyes had darkened to near green almost undid John right then.

He messily pulled their lips back together as he resumed his endeavor to relieve Sherlock of his clothing, rough, sure hands memorizing pale skin as he went.

There was a soft moment of hesitation when John's hands met the ropy scars that ran all the way from Sherlock's shoulder blade into the dip of his hip. Sherlock had stilled under him, eyes wary and guarded. John's thumb traced over one line softly, unsure, before he pressed his full palm over them and matched the pressure with a kiss to Sherlock's forehead, the first place he'd ever kissed him. He wouldn't shy away from any part of this awe inspiring person, his closest friend—not a single part of him.

Sherlock responded under his touch, moving into it, sighing low. Then it was both of them tearing at each other's remaining garments, desperate form more contact. The closer they got the more their need looped back into the other and John lo longer had _any _doubts that this was _exactly _what Sherlock wanted. Finally the only thing left between them was John's marker, but his fingers were fumbling as he tried to get at the buckle.

Once more Sherlock's impatience made itself known as he pushed John back against the bed and crawled over him. John gave up on the marker. He hissed as their bodies aligned, limbs tangling, chests pressed together and then came their hips, erections trapped between them and they both couldn't stop from moaning.

It was chaotic and messy, as most first times were. They writhed and twisted into each other, palms on skin, hands pulling closer, trying to hold each other completely, a physical imitation of the intangible bond they shared.

"John," Sherlock murmured, more and more. "John…"

John rolled them over, a pretty impressive maneuver on such a small bed, so he could straddle Sherlock's hips and bend to press warm kisses all over his chest. The press of his lips to Sherlock's skin were telling, trying so hard to convey how John felt about this impossible boy. Once more trying to say that he knew him—completely—and he loved him. Sherlock heard; the feelings John's attention evoked were present on his tongue as he whispered John's name, there in the back of his mind, slipping over the link between them.

Sherlock's fingers carded into John's short blond hair and pulled their lips back together, and their hips back into alignment. Then they gave into instinct, rolling together over and over, breaths coming shorter and shorter. Pressure and heat began to build at the base of John's spine and something possessed him to push himself up and reach between them, taking both himself and Sherlock in hand. Sherlock bit John's lower lip as he groaned, matching the pace of John's thrusts. Unable to function enough to continue kissing Sherlock, John's forehead dropped to his shoulder, a thin layer of sweat making their skin slippery.

The build inside of him was reaching an apex, but Sherlock's rhythm was faltering so he couldn't' be far behind.

"Sherlock… I-ah-I'm… I'm going to…" John tried to warn but the words just were so far beyond his abilities.

Sherlock just dug his fingers into John's back and began snapping his hips up into John's hand even faster.

"John…!"

A single broken call of his name was all it took and John's orgasm hit him like a freight train. He went tight as a trip wire as he spilled over both of them. One or two more upward thrusts and Sherlock was coming, too, eyes wide and lips parted. John rolled his hips a few more times, wringing the last drops of pleasure out of them both, before he collapsed sideways, landing half on top of Sherlock.

Their breathing was loud and heavy as they regained awareness. John raised his head to meet Sherlock's half lidded, spent gaze. Despite the wild intensity of what they'd just experienced, it was a simple overpowering rush of affection for the blue-eyed genius that made him lean forward and press a deep, lingering kiss to his lips.

John used a handful of tissues from his bedside table to clean them up before collapsing bonelessly once more to the bed next to Sherlock. The young Changeling was a little tense for a minute, watching John, and for the first time that night John got the impression that this was something Sherlock hadn't done before. He wasn't sure what to do next.

So John kissed him quickly on the forehead before rising one more time to shut out the lights and finally take his marker off. With a light grimace he wondered if he'd ever be able to look at the thing in the same way again—without remembering _this. _Well, this was not a bad thing to remember, he thought to himself with a small smile.

When he returned to the bed he pulled the covers out from under Sherlock, crawled into bed, and pulled the covers over them both. Then he wrapped his arms around his best mate, boyfriend, lover, apparent soul mate, whatever the hell this was, and pulled him close, so his head tucked into the space where shoulder, neck and chest met, recreating the position they used to pretend they didn't wake up in after Sherlock had nightmares—flawlessly intertwined.

After a hesitant second, Sherlock relaxed into him, legs tangling with John's, as clingy as he ever was on those mornings they never talked about. A sleepy smile crossed John's face, because he couldn't imagine why he spent so much time agonizing over this. This was how it was always supposed to be, John thought as he laid his cheek against silky curls.

"Goodnight, Sherlock," John whispered.

John felt a soft smile against his chest.

"Goodnight, John."


	20. Diversions

_**How to Build a Heart out of Ashes**_

_Chapter Twenty: Diversions_

The news had come from Greg. The captain of the student guard had been on cloud nine in the weeks since he'd found Molly with her tears chilled on her cheeks, in a park in town after Sherlock Holmes had shattered her mirage relationship with gay Jim from IT. Though he hadn't told any of the details to Sherlock or John, he'd wiped the tears from her face, and when they showed up to meet their friends for lunch on the following Monday, Molly and Greg and been together, with soft smiles constantly flitting from their lips to their eyes and back, and nobody mentioned the chaos of the previous Friday.

But the persistent contentment that had taken up residence in the future crow's feet on Greg's face was not present when Sherlock found him rushing through the entryway of the Baker Building. He'd been looking for the shepherd shift to have him pull out a number of the school's old records. Since the school had stopped shutting Sherlock's theories down completely, Greg had been able to openly give him access to many of the Institute's files. He'd even been helping Sherlock and John lately—completely willing to believe Sherlock's theories after the encounter with Sigur Holmes in the woods. While personally Sherlock preferred to work alone or with John, he had to admit the extra eyes allowed them to move more quickly through paperwork.

"Greg," Sherlock called as he moved to intercept the young man's path. "I need—"

Greg barely slowed down, poorly knotted tie flipped up over his shoulder.

"I don't have time right now, Sherlock," Greg said.

That's when Sherlock noticed the heaviness and concern in Greg's face, laden with trouble. He hadn't even managed to fully close his book bag in his haste, and his phone was clutched in his hand.

"What's going on?" Sherlock asked, turning to match pace with him for a few steps.

Greg was practically running though, so his answer was tossed over his shoulder.

"Some sixth former got attacked on the edge of the woods," Greg said, black shoes squeaking on the checkered marble.

Sherlock had stopped then, rocking on his toes, contemplation descending on his features.

Sherlock had let Greg go, but later at dinner he'd found the student guard and interrogated him. Greg looked tired as he ate, Molly's concerned face turned towards him as he recounted the details of the event.

"Mark is going to be okay," Greg said, referencing the college student that was attacked. "He needed a couple stitches but there was no long term damage done. Messed up, though. He'd been headed into the woods for a walk, stag shift, when two big brutes jump him. Said they were some kind of canine shifts. They bloodied him up and then ran off. A secondary schooler found him limping towards the school and called help. Mark's a good guy as far as anyone can tell. Doesn't have a history of getting into any trouble. No idea why he'd be attacked."

Greg rolled some carrots around his plate with his fork, corners of his mouth turned down.

"Were the attackers students?" Sherlock pressed, leaning over the table.

Greg shrugged, putting his fork down and placed his elbows and crossed arms on the table.

"Mark said he didn't see any markers, but they could have taken them off. It happened too fast for him to get any good looks at the shifts, couldn't give us a breed or anything… nothing to match to a student even if the faculty and police tried. There's really nothing to go on," Greg said, eyes distant, remembering the trials of the day.

Molly squeezed his arm gently and he came back to the present, shooting her a reassuring, if tight, half smile.

Sherlock pursed his lips. He had no explanation for the unprompted attack. Maybe the sixth former was lying and he'd got into more trouble than people knew. Maybe the attack was truly random. Maybe some drunk changelings from town. That was always possible.

The explanation was enough for Sherlock in the moment, and he was too focused on the Wanderer's case to dedicate much of his processing power to a random attack, despite the twist of discomfort that wiggled in his stomach at the strange proceedings.

However, he didn't give it another thought… until a second attack followed. Then a third.

. . .

"Holmes, we don't have time for this right now!" the head of campus security snapped as the student tried to get him to pay attention.

He was an older man, bald patch on the back of his head. He may have been in shape at one point, but now his suit jacket remained unbuttoned to make room for the bulge around his middle.

Sherlock had come in with a large file, a compilation of evidence. The short version of all of his research, everything he had that supported his theory on the false Wanderings. He'd come to get the faculty to review it, and then hopefully they'd be convinced enough to send it on to Scotland Yard. But Mr. Brewers was having absolutely none of it.

"We don't have time for your mad theories on a completely natural thing, Mr. Holmes. We've had _three_ unexplained attacks on our student body and you want me to look at Wanderings?" Mr. Brewers snapped. "Get out of my sodding office."

Mouth opening and closing like a fish, the offended genius stomped off. Even so, it wasn't until he was greeted by similar, if more diplomatic, responses from a number of other faculties that his brain began to spin in a new direction.

It was as he stared at the door of the Dean's office, shiny brass nameplate reflected in his eyes that it hit his brain like a strike of lighting.

It set a fire. Rage burned through his system.

. . .

"_It's him, John!"_ Sherlock roared as he slammed the door of John's room wide open, making the wolf shift jump from where he sat at his desk, revising for something that was definitely less important than what Sherlock had to say.

"Who?" John asked.

"_Moriarty!_" Sherlock spat the name like acid on his tongue.

John's eyebrows knitted and he leaned back, pushing his chair out so he could look directly at Sherlock, who had begun to pace madly over the floor. Sherlock was furious, as he always was when he realized something later than he believed he should have.

"I should have known from the first attack!"

Luckily John had got better at not being wholly stupid, as Sherlock didn't think he could drag him through the steps today. He was too upset to build little bridges for John over his mental leaps.

He folded his arms over his chest and his mouth became a tight line.

"You think Moriarty is behind the campus attacks?"

Sherlock spun towards John.

"Of course he is!" Sherlock said. "It's a distraction, John. Isn't it obvious?"

Knowing better than to say it wasn't, John just waited for him to continue.

"We are getting closer! But more than that, the faculty was starting to get suspicious! So what does he do? He gives them something else to focus on! Something tangible. It's brilliant," Sherlock hissed. "While the attacks continue, the Institute won't put a hair of their scrutiny on a series of questionable Wanderings."

Sherlock was so outraged that it rolled off of him. He was sure John could feel it like a flame against his mind. It was bubbling over.

He was always one step behind. Moriarty's web was made of steel, and it had more threads than Sherlock could keep in his sight at once, and it made him furious. He wanted to break something.

"Hey, hey!" John called his focus, feeling the dangerous turns Sherlock's thoughts were taking.

John had complained quite a lot when he had to replace his favorite mug.

Sherlock's eyes snapped towards John, rage still crackling through his system, demanding a release. His eyes dropped John's lips. If he couldn't break things he'd have to let it out another way.

And there it was. He fell on John like a storm.

An hour and two sets of clothing on the floor later, Sherlock found he felt much better.

. . .

On a rainy Saturday in June, a strange event was taking place in the most isolated common room in the A Wing dormitories. Sherlock wasn't sure how he had been made to agree to this. He hated to admit that it may have been connected to his and John's activities that morning, as painfully mortal as it sounded, but he couldn't help but admit he had felt unusually compliant lately.

The campus attacks had been a blow, that was true, but it seemed one John Watson was providing ample and more enjoyable alternatives to fuming over files he'd already memorized. Some voice in his head thought perhaps he should be annoyed, as John _was _distracting him from the case in some ways, but for some reason he couldn't bring himself to care. Besides, the… vigorous activity and frequent hormone spikes seemed to be a highly effective way of clearing his head. It was a fact that he'd had several important cognitive leaps while lying in John's bed, heart rate still elevated.

Still, a year ago, Sherlock would have never seen himself where he stood now, violin and bow in hand, playing—for an _audience_.

"The faculty is discouraging people from doing much outside until they discover the root of these attacks, and they've been interested in your playing for a long time now, it's been mentioned fairly regularly," John had reasoned.

Sherlock had then pointed out that they weren't going to discover anything until Moriarty decided he wanted the attacks to stop, but John had said that wasn't really the point and then there'd been an argument and John had been yelling something about having friends and social obligations and if Sherlock was being completely honest he still wasn't sure about the cost benefit ratio of having friends yet, but here he was.

Now John sat in a plush chair by the window. The glass was beaded with raindrops, silver dots on a platinum backdrop. The lupine changeling looked content now, thin red jumper with its sleeves pushed up towards his elbows, exposing the forearms that were beginning to tone again with the start of rugby season. Molly and Greg sat on one couch together, their hands laced over Greg's knee. Mike and Suzie sat on the other sofa. Mike had admitted he'd probably heard well enough of Sherlock's playing for a lifetime, but Suzie had wanted to go so he took one of the team, making John promise that Sherlock wouldn't play any of that screechy stuff he was partial to in the middle of the night.

Sherlock wasn't planning on it, so Mike had nothing to fear. He only produced that kind of noise when it reflected his head. When storms of frustration or complete and utter boredom set in.

No, today he played nicely, reminiscent of the very few recitals he had been coerced into participating in as a child.

He'd started with a few classics to warm up, but quickly moved onto some of his original compositions. One with a shifting tempo got the most attention. It started slow and steady, then moved suddenly into high energy segments, that at first sounded dark but then moved into bright bouncing notes like laughter, before finally ending on something almost sweet, but low and perhaps a bit sad. Even Sherlock was particularly pleased with a few variations he'd woven through in a fit of inspiration, catching John's eye in the middle of the piece.

By the time Sherlock had played the last poignant note, Molly's eyes were glassy, lips pressed together in small smile, and Suzie's palms were clasped together.

"That one was really good!" Greg commented as soon as he was sure it was over. "What's it called?"

Sherlock didn't look up from where he was applying a fresh coat of sticky rosin to his reddened bow.

"It doesn't have a name," Sherlock said.

It did, in fact, have a name. It just wasn't a name Sherlock wanted to share.

"Mm," Greg said, not having any reason to suspect Sherlock was lying and therefore moving on.

Sherlock played two more pieces before pulling his violin from below his chin, lowering his bow and bending at the waist, palms forward, to bow.

Molly, Suzie and Mike clapped, and John and Greg smiled approvingly as the wind changed and droplets began to splatter loudly against the window panes.

"Wow, if you always played like that, perhaps I wouldn't have offered to switch rooms with John," Mike said as the group rose from where they'd been seated.

"Be happy you did, though, 'cause now you'd have other noises to keep you up at night!" Greg said cheekily as he stretched his neck.

Sherlock was unfazed as he packed his things away, but John—and Molly—of course turned a light shade of pink as the others giggled at Sherlock and John's expense.

"Right!" Greg said, clapping his hands and rubbing his palms together. "Any of you lot hungry?"

There were three varying versions of yes and one resolute no from Sherlock.

"See you after dinner then," John said, not putting up a fight, as Sherlock had been present at both breakfast and lunch that day.

"Bring tea," Sherlock said, back to John as he picked up a stray block of rosin.

By the mixed flutter of annoyance and amusement feathering against his mind, Sherlock could guess John had rolled his eyes but Sherlock didn't care as long as he brought the tea, which he would. Only when John was in a truly foul mood did he deny Sherlock's demands out of spite.

Then Sherlock was alone in the common room, surrounded on four sides with fleur-de-lis wallpaper. While he hadn't had to use them, Sherlock had brought his music note books down, which he now retrieved from the empty armchair. He stopped there, and opened to the handwritten sheet music, wanting to add the variation he'd played earlier to the piece. He flipped to the right page, where a title most definitely sat proudly at the top of the page in Sherlock's own flowing script.

_John III._

But there was another script there. Script that was most definitely _not _in Sherlock's hand. Script that was familiar—written in red ink.

Sherlock's blood chilled and slowed in his veins as he instantly absorbed the small note in the header.

'_**You're disgusting.'**_

Slowed heartbeat thudding in his ears, Sherlock turned a few pages backwards to another heading, suspicions confirmed as he opened on _John II._

'_**I thought you were better than this.'**_

He flipped the pages quickly—_John I._

'_**When did you become so dreadfully boring?'**_

_The Wolf._

'_**Pathetic.'**_

Sherlock rapidly flipped back and forth through the handwritten music, very literally seeing red.

'_**Sickening.'**_

'_**I had such high hopes for you.'**_

''_**Night Eyes'? Really? Uhg.'**_

He had even marked up the ones that Sherlock had titled obscurely, but the mastermind saw right through each one, targeting every single song Sherlock had written with John in mind. Anything else was untouched.

There was a buzzing in Sherlock's head and suddenly he realized this was a new element. This was different than anything before. This wasn't supposed to be part of the game. This game was between Sherlock and Moriarty. After the inclusion of his father, he shouldn't have been surprised, but that had been blood—that was a test.

This… this wasn't in the rules.

And for the first time since Sherlock discovered Lucy Hart's wandering was faked, a sense of uncertainty settled over him. A seed had been planted, and Sherlock had no idea how to stop it from sprouting… or what fruit it would bear when it did.

. . .

When John returned from dinner that night, hands occupied with two steaming mugs of tea, he called through Sherlock's door to be let in. He waited for a minute, but no sounds came from inside.

"Sherlock!" John tried again.

He waited a few more seconds but there was still no response.

"Damn him," John grumbled, awkwardly shifting the tea to free one hand. "Maybe he went for a run…"

John doubted it, as Sherlock rarely went into the forest without John these days. Though they had indeed had an argument about it the other day when John said he shouldn't go there alone with the attacks going on.

"Moriarty wants to hurt my _investigation_, John, not my body. I won't be attacked," he'd said with scorn.

"Oh, and you don't think maiming you would slow down your investigating," John had snapped.

"No," Sherlock had snapped back.

So there was a small chance that Sherlock would have gone into the woods to be vindictive, but John once again doubted it. If he was going to do something dramatic, he would have done it within twenty four hours of the argument. Besides, he'd been in a fairly good mood lately.

Finally John managed to twist the handle and toe the door open with his foot.

John had been right about fifty percent of his guesses.

Sherlock wasn't out.

But his good mood seemed to have vanished, which became quickly apparent.

"Why didn't you open the door, you arse," John said, not truly annoyed—yet. Then he took in his surroundings. "What the bloody hell…?"

Sherlock had ruined his room. The bed was pulled away from the wall, pushed to the center. The desk had moved into its place, shoved into the corner near the door, with files stacked almost to the ceiling on top of it. Sherlock's wardrobe was completely absent. The result of these changes was two completely open walls, or, walls that would have been open if not for the layer of pictures, records, notes, maps and the string that linked many of them together. The files that couldn't fit on the desk, or that Sherlock was planning on using in the near future, were stacked against the wall where his bed had been. The Wanderers' case had engulfed the entire room, and right in the center of it, perched on the balls of his feet with his back bent and palms pressed together like some kind of odd monkey, was Sherlock Holmes, eyes darting as fast as swallows over the two information coated walls. Up and down and side to side to side they flitted, almost moving faster than seemed human. They didn't look at John once.

"Hey," John called when Sherlock didn't answer.

"Busy," was the single word Sherlock uttered.

John narrowed his eyes.

"I brought your tea."

Still Sherlock didn't look up.

"I don't want it anymore. Get rid of it," Sherlock murmured.

John's eye twitched but if his appearance was anything to go by, Sherlock was too far inside his own head to even feel the heat of John's annoyance against his mind. John took a deep breath and counted to five.

"Where is your wardrobe?" John asked, moving on, placing Sherlock's tea on the stack of files closest to the bed.

"In your room."

Sherlock's eyes seemed to trace a path that was completely invisible to anyone but him.

"I'm sorry, what?" John said, irritation seeping into his words.

"I needed more room," Sherlock mumbled, and he still hadn't even looked at John.

John was about to retort hotly but finally he felt the atmosphere that had been pulsing in the room since he arrived. The air was… thin, uncomfortably so. There was a weird humming vibrating the walls that seemed to be originating from Sherlock.

"Sherlock, are you okay?" John said.

That finally got a response. Muscles twitched in Sherlock's cheek.

"John, stop talking. You're distracting me," he said quickly.

John's brow crinkled.

"Sherlock—"

"Shh."

John threw up his hands. There was clearly nothing for it. He'd see if things were better the next day. The door clicked shut. Blue eyes continued to run red paths over the wall.

. . .

Things weren't better in the morning. In fact, Sherlock's unexplained agitation only grew as each day passed, and despite John's many attempts to unearth it, the genius provided no excuse for his sudden shift in behavior.

The only thing that kept John from truly panicking was the fact that Sherlock still often came to him at night. During the days he'd stopped attending most of his classes—only attending the utter minimum to keep the faculty and by extension Mrs. Hudson and John off his case. The same attitude seemed to extend to his appetite. It was like John had gone back in time, and once again Sherlock regularly denied food with the explanation that digestion slowed his brain. It was often like pulling teeth to get Sherlock to eat a damn biscuit. Except for that first night after he'd played for their friends, though, he still was happy to consume large amounts of tea. But that didn't really seem to be helping, as a diet that mostly consisted of liquids and caffeine was not affecting him well. He was twitchy, and permanent furrows settled on his brow.

And even though he often stayed up all night staring at the wall—John knew, he could hear the plucking of his violin strings—Sherlock still came to John frequently when the moon was in the sky. He entered John's dorm, where the air wasn't stuffy. John had finally been able to leave the window cracked with the days approaching summer, and you could smell the forest, which comforted John… and he thought it soothed Sherlock as well.

On those nights they were as close as ever, closer. As the days passed, Sherlock's actions took on wild tones. He held John tighter, touched more fully, and kissed more deeply. And in the aftermath he always stayed, their forms often becoming furry so they could fall asleep completely intertwined. He almost always let John take him to breakfast the following mornings.

So John kept his head, for a while, but things were getting worse and, like an elastic stretched to its limit, things could only keep on moving ahead as they were for so long before a snap.

It all came to a head about two and a half weeks after Sherlock rearranged his room.

John had been heading back to A Wing from his chemistry class, feeble rays of sun kissing the campus intermittently as the clouds moved overhead. That's when John saw him, leaning against the corner of the dormitory, far from the main path, looking out towards the forest. His curls bounced against his forehead as a breeze swept across the grass.

But John didn't really notice those things.

The only thing he noticed was the white stick, pressed between his closed lips; then he saw the cloud of smoke bloom into the air, hovering mockingly before dissipating.

Dark clouds descended on John's features and his path changed abruptly. He strode briskly over the lawn, and maybe it was chance or maybe Sherlock could feel the outrage pulsing off of John from a distance, but suddenly grey eyes swept towards him. His brow dipped questioningly. He was honestly confused.

"What the _hell_ are you doing!?" John said as soon as he stopped, just a foot or two away from the dark haired changeling.

Sherlock cocked his head to the side.

"Smoking…?"

"Why?" John ground out.

"I've found the nicotine helps me think," he said.

John spluttered and another gust of wind tossed Sherlock's curls in the air and made the cherry on the cigarette glow bright red.

"You—I—you've _found?_" John nearly shouted. "As in this isn't the first time you've smoked?"

Sherlock's confusion only seemed to grow. It might be worth restating that John's father was a doctor, so he'd been exposed to a lot more facts about smoking than the average English youth. He'd been so scarred by his father's talks and visual aids that he knew from age 4 that he'd never smoke a cigarette. But even so, it wasn't the fifties, how could Sherlock be confused about his fury?

"No…? I've tried it two other times in the past two days and I've discovered the effects are quite satisfying."

John's jaw dropped. At first he was baffled as to how he hadn't smelled it on him, or… well, tasted it, but then he remembered that Sherlock hadn't come out of his room in the past 60 hours or so, only taking food from John once before slamming the door in his face.

Sherlock moved to take another drag off the cigarette. It never reached his lips.

John plucked it from his fingers at it approached his face, throwing it directly onto the ground and stomping out with his shoe. His heart beat rapidly in his chest.

"John!" Sherlock said sharply, more confused than ever, but now also indignant.

"You can't just start _smoking_, Sherlock!" John said angrily.

John finally felt a wisp anger against his own.

"Why not? We tried cannabis. I don't see how this is any different," Sherlock tried to reason.

John's fists balled up at his sides.

"It's _different_," John growled. "Cannabis doesn't _kill_ people, Sherlock."

Sherlock straightened his back and looked down his nose at John, in that proud way that _royally_ pissed John off.

"One pack of cigarettes isn't going to kill anyone, John," Sherlock said, fishing the box out of his pocket and holding it up.

John's face was flushed, and a vein was pulsing in his temple. He snapped.

"Oh, for—_It says how it can kill you all over the bloody, fucking box!_" John said, throwing his arm out towards the small cardboard package, which indeed was coated with a number of warnings that, at their most basic level, simply stated _these will kill you_.

Of course, John's anger was fuelled by concern, and by fear. Deep seated instincts roiled against this development, screaming dangers bred from Sherlock's natural tendencies. John didn't say it aloud but Sherlock had an addictive personality, and he shuddered remembering Sherlock's last foray into substances.

They stared each other down for just half a second before John realized he was too wound up to utter any words that wouldn't just get him into more trouble, words that would make Sherlock entrench himself further into this idiocy.

But his blood was still running hot and he had no power to stop some action, and he thought this was better than punching Sherlock in the face. He snatched the whole box of cigarettes out of Sherlock's hand and promptly stomped away, ignoring the protests of the changeling behind him.

Sherlock followed John into the building, but had no hope of pulling the crushed package from John's fist so merely tried to reason with him. He stopped though when John turned down the hall that led to Mrs. Hudson's office.

"John, don't!"

John knew Sherlock wouldn't follow and receive Mrs. Hudson's direct scolding. Which is exactly why he'd walked that direction.

"Go eat something, Sherlock," John snapped over his shoulder, just as he slipped around the corner.

Sherlock wasn't following anymore. So John passed right by Mrs. Hudson's office, never having planned on actually going there in the first place. Though he did plan on telling her at some point… in his state he didn't think he could formulate a sentence without using words that would offend Mrs. Hudson mortally. Instead he walked into the nearest public washroom in the building and flipped on a faucet, and shoved the red and white package under the stream until he was sure every cigarette inside was completely saturated, completely ruined.

He knew that Sherlock would easily deduce where the smokes were and retrieve them, just to prove he could, so John had to make sure they were rendered totally unsalvageable. It felt like a win, if empty and small.

After the cigarettes were disposed of in the bin, John finally began to breathe properly. He looked up at himself in the mirror, watching as the anger faded and the fear behind it surfaced. That face in the mirror was failing, it had cracked today. His own anxiety had been exposed and that was not good. He and Sherlock had an open bond. One of them freaking out was enough. If he started freaking out, too, he wasn't sure where their heads would end up.

He had to do something.

He just wasn't sure what.


	21. ANNOUNCEMENT

**SORRY NOT AN ACTUAL CHAPTER**

I just wanted to let everyone know that I will no longer be using and will be closing the account in the next couple days. I wanted to post this here because I know some people still read Ashes here and I wanted to let you all know it will be still be available and completed on my archiveofourown account! I write under the same penname.

Link to How to Build a Heart out of Ashes on Ao3: /works/387082/chapters/634217


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